Quotes to inspire and reflect

Distill’d Almost to jelly with the act of fear.

In the dead vast and middle of the night.

Season your admiration for a while.

He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.

In my mind’s eye, Horatio.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! the funeral bak’d meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven Ere I had ever seen that day.

A truant disposition.

It is not nor it cannot come to good.

A beast, that wants discourse of reason.

Like Niobe, all tears.

Frailty, thy name is woman!

So excellent a king; that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly.

Why, she would hang on him, As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on.

O! that this too too solid 30 flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew; Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d His canon ’gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world.

Things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this!

But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.

To persever In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness; ’tis unmanly grief: It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, A heart unfortified, a mind impatient.

Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not “seems.” ’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black.

Thou know’st ’tis common; all that live must die, Passing through nature to eternity.

So much for him.

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

With one auspicious and one dropping eye, With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage, In equal scale weighing delight and dole.

The memory be green.

But, look, the morn in russet mantle clad, Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill.

Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, The extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine.

And then it started like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons.

The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn.

In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.

This sweaty haste Doth make the night joint-laborer with the day.

But in the gross and scope of my opinion, This bodes some strange eruption to our state.

Whose sore task Does not divide the Sunday from the week.

Not a mouse stirring.

Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.

It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o’er the green corn-field did pass, In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.

For this relief much thanks; ’tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart.

The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy.

Sell when you can, you are not for all markets.

I am falser than vows made in wine.

Down on your knees, And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love.

The wounds invisible That love’s keen arrows make.

The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.

From the east to western Ind, No jewel is like Rosalind.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man’s ingratitude.

These trees shall be my books.

True is it that we have seen better days.

Oppress’d with two weak evils, age and hunger.

But whate’er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; If ever you have look’d on better days, If ever been where bells have knoll’d to church, If ever sat at any good man’s feast, If ever from your eyelids wip’d a tear, And know what ’tis to pity, and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be.