Silence Is The Perfectest Herald Of Joy: I Were But Little Happy, If I Could Say How Much.
- William Shakespeare
Art Thou A Man? Thy Form Cries Out Thou Art: Thy Tears Are Womanish; Thy Wild Acts Denote The Unreasonable Fury Of A Beast: Unseemly Woman In A Seeming Man! Or Ill-Beseeming Beast In Seeming Both!
I Do Not Speak To Thee In Drink But In Tears, Not In Pleasure But In Passion, Not In Words Only, But In Woes Also.
Cowards Die Many Times Before Their Deaths; The Valiant Never Taste Of Death But Once. Of All The Wonders That I Yet Have Heard, It Seems To Me Most Strange That Men Should Fear; Seeing That Death, A Necessary End, Will Come When It Will Come.
A Wretched Soul, Bruised With Adversity, We Bid Be Quiet When We Hear It Cry; But Were We Burdened With Like Weight Of Pain, As Much Or More We Should Ourselves Complain.
Thoughts Are But Dreams Till Their Effects Be Tried.
Time Hath, My Lord, A Wallet At His Back Wherein He Puts Alms For Oblivion, A Great-Sized Monster Of Ingratitudes: Those Scraps Are Good Deeds Past, Which Are Devour’d As Fast As They Are Made, Forgot As Soon As Done.
Be It Art Or Hap, He Hath Spoken True.
Against Self-Slaughter There Is A Prohibition So Divine That Cravens My Weak Hand.
My Bounty Is As Boundless As The Sea, My Love Love As Deep; The More I Give To Thee, The More I Have, For Both Are Infinite.
Every Man Has His Fault, And Honesty Is His.
Wishers Were Ever Fools.
Glory Is Like A Circle In The Water, Which Never Ceaseth To Enlarge Itself, Till By Broad Spreading It Disperses To Naught.
Oh, That Way Madness Lies; Let Me Shun That.
Love’s Not Time’s Fool, Though Rosy Lips And Cheeks Within His Bending Sickle’s Compass Come; Love Alters Not With His Brief Hours And Weeks, But Bears It Out Even To The Edge Of Doom.
When Love Begins To Sicken And Decay, It Useth An Enforced Ceremony.
Her Madness Hath The Oddest Frame Of Sense, Such A Dependency Of Thing On Thing, As E’er I Heard In Madness.
What Power Is It Which Mounts My Love So High, That Makes Me See, And Cannot Feed Mine Eye?
I Wasted Time And Now Doth Time Waste Me.
The Chameleon Love Can Feed On The Air.
The Purest Treasure Mortal Times Afford Is Spotless Reputation; That Away, Men Are But Gilded Loam Or Painted Clay.
Many That Are Not Mad Have, Sure, More Lack Of Reason.
Make Not Your Thoughts Your Prisons.
Pleasure And Action Make The Hours Seem Short.
I Thank God I Am As Honest As Any Man Living That Is An Old Man And No Honester Than I.
Sure, He That Made Us With Such Large Discourse, Looking Before And After, Gave Us Not That Capability And God-Like Reason To Fust In Us Unus’d.
Madness In Great Ones Must Not Unwatch’d Go.
Though I Want A Kingdom, Yet In Marriage I May Not Prove Inferior To Yourself.
Though Patience Be A Tired Mare, Yet She Will Plod.
When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought I Summon Up Remembrance Of Things Past, I Sigh The Lack Of Many Things I Sought, And With Old Woes New Wail My Dear Time’s Waste.
Perdition Catch My Soul, But I Do Love Thee! And When I Love Thee Not, Chaos Is Come Again.
O, Then, What Graces In My Love Do Dwell, That He Hath Turn’d A Heaven Unto Hell!
Love Lacked A Dwelling, And Made Him Her Place; And When In His Fair Parts She Did Abide, She Was Lodged And Newly Deified.
Talkers Are No Good Doers; Be Assur’d We Come To Use Our Hands And Not Our Tongues.
Brevity Is The Soul Of Wit.
How Poor Are They Who Have Not Patience! What Wound Did Ever Heal But By Degrees.
He Hath Eaten Me Out Of House And Home.
There’s Beggary In The Love That Can Be Reckon’d.
That Time Of Year Thou May’st In Me Behold, When Yellow Leaves, Or None, Or Few, Do Hang Upon Those Boughs Which Shake Against The Cold,- Bare Ruin’d Choirs, Where Late The Sweet Birds Sang.
Age Cannot Wither Her, Nor Custom Stale Her Infinite Variety.
How Ever Do We Praise Ourselves, Our Fancies Are More Giddy And Uniform, More Longing, Wavering, Sooner Lost And Worn, Than Women’s Are.
The Better Part Of Valour Is Discretion.
Here Will Be An Old Abusing Of God’s Patience And The King’s English.
In The Spring Time, The Only Pretty Ring Time, When Birds Do Sing… Sweet Lovers Love The Spring.
A Woman Impudent And Mannish Grown Is Not More Loathed Than An Effeminate Man In Time Of Action.
Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer’s Day? Thou Art More Lovely And More Temperate: Rough Winds Do Shake The Darling Buds Of May, And Summer’s Lease Hath All Too Short A Date.
The Sweetest Honey Is Loathsome In His Own Deliciousness And In The Taste Confounds The Appetite.
I Understand A Fury In Your Words,But Not The Words.
So Full Of Artless Jealousy Is Guilt,It Spills Itself In Fearing To Be Spilt.
‘Tis Much He Dares; And, To That Dauntless Temper Of His Mind, He Hath A Wisdom That Doth Guide His Valour To Act In Safety.
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