They do not love, that do not show their love.
He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart.
Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.
What if the greatest love story ever told was the wrong one?
When we can't understand the science behind something in this world, we make up mythological entities that we can relate to. We personify the forces of nature that mystify us, using our boundless imaginations to comfort us and make us feel like we have some control over these things that are much bigger than we are.
You speak an infinite deal of nothing.
They lie deadly that tell you have good faces.
Lucentio: I read that I profess, the Art of Love.Bianca: And may you prove, sir, master of your art!Lucentio: While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart!
O ill-starred wench! Pale as your smock!
I am evenThe natural fool of fortune.
I am in bloodStepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more,Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.
And nothing is, but what is not.
La vida es mi tortura y la muerte será mi descanso.
Lord Polonius: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words. Lord Polonius: What is the matter, my lord? Hamlet: Between who? Lord Polonius: I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.
For this new-married man approaching here,Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong'dYour well defended honour, you must pardonFor Mariana's sake: but as he adjudged your brother,--Being criminal, in double violationOf sacred chastity and of promise-breachThereon dependent, for your brother's life,--The very mercy of the law cries outMost audible, even from his proper tongue,'An Angelo for Claudio, death for death!'Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure;Like doth quit like, and MEASURE still FOR MEASURE
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause
They are the books, the arts, the academes,That show, contain and nourish all the world.
These violent delights have violent endsAnd in their triump die, like fire and powderWhich, as they kiss, consume
To die, is to be banish'd from myself; And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her, Is self from self: a deadly banishment! What light is light, if Silvia be not seen? What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by? Unless it be to think that she is by, And feed upon the shadow of perfection.Except I be by Silvia in the night, There is no music in the nightingale; Unless I look on Silvia in the day, There is no day for me to look upon; She is my essence, and I leave to be, If I be not by her fair influence Foster'd, illumin'd, cherish'd, kept alive.
Copyrighted © 2023 — Quotation.io. All rights reserved.
