What a piece of work is a man! How noble inreason, how infinite in faculty! In form and movinghow express and admirable! In action how like an Angel!in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of theworld! The paragon of animals! And yet to me, what isthis quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no,nor… Continue reading William Shakespeare
When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with the night And pay no worship to the garish sun. — William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet: Act III, Scene ii
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And… Continue reading William Shakespeare
Presume not that I am the thing I was. — William Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 2. Act V Scene v
Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything. — William Shakespeare, As You Like It. Act II Scene… Continue reading William Shakespeare
But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit. — William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice Act II. Scene vi.
Teach me to hear mermaids singing… — John Donne, from “Song: Go and Catch a Star,” The Songs and Sonnets of John Donne. (Harvard University Press; New edition edition, April 20, 2009) Originally published 1633.
What remains to be done must be done by you; since in order not to deprive us of our free will and such share of glory as belongs to us, God will not do everything himself. ― Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince. (Dante University of America Press; 2nd edition, May 15, 2003)
She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? — William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene IV
And worse I may be yet: the worst is not So long as we can say “This is the worst.” ― William Shakespeare, King Lear: Act IV, Scene ii