Quotes to inspire and reflect

While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn door, Stoutly struts his dames before, Oft list’ning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumb’ring morn.

Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free.

The mountain nymph, sweet liberty.

Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter, holding both his sides. Come, and trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe.

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful jollity, Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, Nods and becks and wreathed smiles.

So buxom, blithe, and debonair.

Hence, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, ’Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy.

Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.

As ever in my great Taskmaster’s eye.

What needs my Shakespeare for his honor’d bones, The labor of an age in piled stones, Or that his hallow’d relics should be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol’n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year.

Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim.

The Oracles are dumb.

No war, or battle’s sound Was heard the world around. The idle spear and shield were high up hung.

Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold.

The magic of a face.

A service beyond all recompense Weighs so heavy that it almost gives offense.

Give me more love or more disdain; The torrid or the frozen zone: Bring equal ease unto my pain; The temperate affords me none.

He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or, from starlike eyes, doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away.

Ask me no more if east or west The Phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.

Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauty’s orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Here lies a King that rul’d, as he thought fit The universal monarchy of wit; Here lies two flamens, and both those the best: Apollo’s first, at last the true God’s priest.

You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat: So I did sit and eat.

Religion stands on tiptoe in our land, Ready to pass to the American strand.

Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, If I lack’d anything.

A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine: Who sweeps a room, as for thy laws, Makes that and th’ action fine.

Teach me, my God and King, In all things thee to see And what I do in any thing, To do it as for thee.

The harbingers are come. See, see their mark; White is their color, and behold my head.

And now in age I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write; I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing: O my only light, It cannot be That I am he On whom thy tempests fell all night.

Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart Could have recovered greenness?

Let him be rich and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast.

Grief melts away Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing.

But as I rav’d and grew more fierce and wild At every word, Methought I heard one calling, Child! And I replied, My Lord.

He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: So both should losers be.

Call in thy death’s head there: tie up thy fears.

I struck the board, and cried, No more: I will abroad. What? shall I ever sigh and pine? My lines and life are free; free as the road, Loose as the wind, as large as store. Shall I be still in suit? Have I no harvest but a thorn To let me blood, and not restore What I have lost with cordial fruit? Sure there was wine Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn Before my tears did drown it; Is the year only lost to me? Have I no bays to crown it?

Most things move th’ under-jaw, the crocodile not. 4 Most things sleep lying, th’ elephant leans or stands. 5

God’s works are wide, and let in future times; His ancient justice overflows our crimes.

Nothing wears clothes, but Man; nothing doth need But he to wear them.

Who goes to bed and does not pray, Maketh two nights to every day.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season’d timber, never gives.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky.

Who says that fictions only and false hair Become a verse? Is there in truth no beauty? 3

I got me flowers to strew Thy way, I got me boughs off many a tree: But Thou wast up by break of day, And brought’st Thy sweets along with Thee.

Man stole the fruit, but I must climb the tree.

Was ever grief like mine?