Emotions and Feelings

Hysterica passio! down, thou climbing sorrow! Thy element’s below.

Fortune, good night, smile once more; turn thy wheel!

How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is To have a thankless child!

Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.

Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous, when thou show’st thee in a child, Than the sea-monster.

Now, gods, stand up for bastards!

Come not between the dragon and his wrath.

Now, our joy, Although our last, not least.

In Aleppo once, Where a malignant and a turban’d Turk Beat a Venetian and traduc’d the state, I took by the throat the circumcised dog, And smote him thus.

It is the very error of the moon; She comes more near the earth than she was wont, And makes men mad.

The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, Sing all a green willow; Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee, Sing willow, willow, willow. 44

O heaven! that such companions thou’dst unfold, And put in every honest hand a whip To lash the rascals naked through the world.

Patience, thou young and rose-lipp’d cherubin.

O thou weed! Who art so lovely fair and smell’st so sweet That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne’er been born.

But, alas! to make me A fixed figure for the time of scorn To point his slow and moving finger at.

But, alas! to make me A fixed figure for the time of scorn To point his slow and moving finger at.

Is this the noble nature Whom passion could not shake? whose solid virtue The shot of accident nor dart of chance Could neither graze nor pierce?

I understand a fury in your words, But not the words.

But jealous souls will not be answer’d so; They are not ever jealous for the cause, But jealous for they are jealous; ’tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself.

Like to the Pontick sea, Whose icy current and compulsive course Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on To the Propontic and the Hellespont, Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace, Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to humble love, Till that a capable and wide revenge Swallow them up.

On horror’s head horrors accumulate.

Trifles light as air Are to the jealous confirmations strong As proofs of holy writ.

Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou ow’dst yesterday.

O curse of marriage! That we can call these delicate creatures ours, And not their appetites. I had rather be a toad, And live upon the vapor of a dungeon, Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others’ uses.