William Shakespeare

What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts.

Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front; _x000D_ _x000D_ And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds _x000D_ _x000D_ To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, _x000D_ _x000D_ He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber _x000D_ _x000D_ To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.

No matter where; of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth

Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops." Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.

The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts _x000D_ _x000D_ Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,_x000D_ _x000D_ And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown _x000D_ _x000D_ An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds_x000D_ _x000D_ Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer,_x000D_ _x000D_ The childing autumn, angry winter, change_x000D_ _x000D_ Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,_x000D_ _x000D_ By their increase, now knows not which is which.

As I hope_x000D_ _x000D_ For quiet days, fair issue, and long life,_x000D_ _x000D_ With such love as 'tis now, the murkiest den,_x000D_ _x000D_ The most opportune place, the strong'st suggestion_x000D_ _x000D_ Our worser genius can, shall never melt_x000D_ _x000D_ Mine honour into lust, to take away_x000D_ _x000D_ The edge of that day's celebration,_x000D_ _x000D_ When I shall think or Phoebus' steeds are founder'd_x000D_ _x000D_ Or Night kept chain'd below.

There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.

Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Some are born great, others achieve greatness.

The curse of marriage_x000D_ _x000D_ That we can call these delicate creatures ours_x000D_ _x000D_ And not their appetites!

O, a kiss_x000D_ _x000D_ Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge!_x000D_ _x000D_ Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip_x000D_ _x000D_ Hath virgined it e'er since.

Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savour but themselves.

If I profane with my unworthiest hand_x000D_ _x000D_ This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:_x000D_ _x000D_ My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand_x000D_ _x000D_ To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

Nay, do not think I flatter. For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?

In time we hate that which we often fear.

If music be the food of love, play on.

Were kisses all the joys in bed, _x000D_ One woman would another wed.

It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, and that craves wary walking.

Die for adultery! No: The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight