Our revels now are ended. These our actors,As I foretold you, were all spirits andAre melted into air, into thin air:And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,The solemn temples, the great globe itself,Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolveAnd, like this insubstantial pageant faded,Leave not a rack behind. We… Continue reading William Shakespeare
With fairest flowersWhilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele,I’ll sweeten thy sad grave: thou shalt not lackThe flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose, norThe azured harebell, like thy veins, no, norThe leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,Out-sweeten’d not thy breath: the ruddock would,With charitable bill,–O bill, sore-shamingThose rich-left heirs that let their… Continue reading William Shakespeare
Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires. — William Shakespeare, Macbeth: Act I, Scene vi (1606)
Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter—In sleep a king, but waking no such matter. — William Shakespeare, from “Sonnet 87,” The Complete Sonnets and Poems (Oxford University Press, 2008)
O, hereWill I set up my everlasting rest,And shake the yoke of inauspicious starsFrom this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last!Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O youThe doors of breath, seal with a righteous kissA dateless bargain to engrossing death! — William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act V, Scene iii
There lives within the very flame of loveA kind of wick or snuff that will abate it,And nothing is at a like goodness still,For goodness, growing to a plurisy,Dies in his own too much. — William Shakespeare, Hamlet Act IV, Scene vii
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,Are of imagination all compact. —William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream: Act V, Scene i
For death remembered should be like a mirror,Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.” ― William Shakespeare, Pericles. Act I, Scene i
If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere wellIt were done quickly —William Shakespeare, Macbeth Act IV Scene vii
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart / Or else my heart, concealing it, will break, ― William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew : Act IV, Scene iii
The Vale of Soul-Making 