Quotes to inspire and reflect

The beast With many heads butts me away.

Hear you this Triton of the minnows? mark you His absolute “shall”?

What is the city but the people?

The mutable, rank-scented many.

I thank you for your voices, thank you, Your most sweet voices.

My gracious silence, hail!

Bid them wash their faces, And keep their teeth clean.

As they would hang them on the horns o’ the moon, Shouting their emulation.

The gods sent not Corn for the rich men only.

As she would catch another Antony In her strong toil of grace.

First Guard: … Charmian, is this well done? Charmian: It is well done, and fitting for a princess Descended of so many royal kings. 51

Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, That sucks the nurse asleep?

Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies A lass unparallel’d.

If thou and nature can so gently part, The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, Which hurts, and is desir’d.

Husband, I come.

I have Immortal longings in me.

I wish you joy of the worm.

The bright day is done, And we are for the dark.

The quick comedians Extemporally will stage us, and present Our Alexandrian revels. Antony Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness I’ the posture of a whore.

His legs bestrid the ocean; his rear’d arm Crested the world; his voice was propertied As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends; But when he meant to quail and shake the orb, He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty, There was no winter in ’t, an autumn ’twas That grew the more by reaping; his delights Were dolphin-like, they show’d his back above The element they liv’d in; in his livery Walk’d crowns and crownets, realms and islands were As plates dropp’d from his pocket.

And it is great To do that thing that ends all other deeds, Which shackles accidents, and bolts up change.

Let’s do it after the high Roman fashion, And make death proud to take us.

O! wither’d is the garland of the war, The soldier’s pole is fall’n; young boys and girls Are level now with men; the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.

O sun! Burn the great sphere thou mov’st in; darkling stand The varying shore o’ the world.

I am dying, Egypt, dying; only I here importune death awhile, until Of many thousand kisses the poor last I lay upon thy lips.

Unarm, Eros; the long day’s task is done, And we must sleep.

But I will be A bridegroom in my death, and run into ’t As to a lover’s bed.

Sometimes we see a cloud that’s dragonish; A vapor sometime like a bear or lion, A tower’d citadel, a pendant rock, A forked mountain, or blue promontory With trees upon ’t.

The shirt of Nessus is upon me.

To business that we love we rise betime, And go to ’t with delight.

O infinite virtue! com’st thou smiling from The world’s great snare uncaught?

Now he’ll outstare the lightning. To be furious Is to be frighted out of fear.

Let’s have one other gaudy night.

I found you as a morsel, cold upon Dead Caesar’s trencher.

Men’s judgments are A parcel of their fortunes, and things outward Do draw the inward quality after them, To suffer all alike.

We have kiss’d away Kingdoms and provinces.

He wears the rose Of youth upon him.

Ambition, The soldier’s virtue.

Celerity is never more admir’d Than by the negligent.

He will to his Egyptian dish again.

Come, thou monarch of the vine, Plumpy Bacchus, with pink eyne!

Music, moody food Of us that trade in love.

Though it be honest, it is never good To bring bad news.

I will to Egypt And though I make this marriage for my peace, I’ the East my pleasure lies.

I have not kept my square, but that to come Shall all be done by the rule.

The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne, Burn’d on the water; the poop was beaten gold, Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It beggar’d all description.

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety; other women cloy The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies; for vilest things Become themselves in her, that the holy priests Bless her when she is riggish.

Epicurean cooks Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite.