William Shakespeare

A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.

The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.

It hurts not the tongue to give fair words.

And thus I clothe my naked villainy With odd old ends stol'n out of holy writ; And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.

These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite. Therefore love moderately; long love doth so; Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.

There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? O, stay and hear; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love? 'Tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies not plenty; Then, come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.

Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.

Such an act_x000D_ _x000D_ That blurs the grace and blush of modesty;_x000D_ _x000D_ Calls virtue hypocrite; takes off the rose_x000D_ _x000D_ From the fair forehead of an innocent love,_x000D_ _x000D_ And sets a blister there; makes marriage vows_x000D_ _x000D_ As false as dicers' oaths.

Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.

My falcon now is sharp and passing empty, and till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, for then she never looks upon her lure.

But, indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds [vows] disgraced them." Viola: "Thy reason, man?" Feste: "Troth [Truthfully], sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so false, I am loathe to prove reason with them.

Give them great meals of beef and iron and steel, they will eat like wolves and fight like devils.

Modest doubt is called the beacon of the wise.

Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valour As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem, Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,' Like the poor cat i' the adage?

Come,_x000D_ _x000D_ Let's have one other gaudy night. Call to me_x000D_ _x000D_ All my sad captains. Fill our bowls once more._x000D_ _x000D_ Let's mock the midnight bell.

I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The Genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.

Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.

And do as adversaries do in law, strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.

Beauty, wit,_x000D_ _x000D_ High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service,_x000D_ _x000D_ Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all_x000D_ _x000D_ To envious and calumniating time.