Emotions and Feelings

If I do prove her haggard, Though that her jesses were my dear heart-strings, I’d whistle her off and let her down the wind, To prey at fortune.

Think’st thou I’d make a life of jealousy, To follow still the changes of the moon With fresh suspicions? No; to be once in doubt Is once to be resolved.

O! beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-ey’d monster which doth mock The meat it feeds on; that cuckold lives in bliss Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger; But, O! what damned minutes tells he o’er Who dotes, yet doubts; suspects, yet soundly loves!

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

Silence that dreadful bell! it frights the isle From her propriety.

Egregiously an ass.

Iago: To suckle fools and chronicle small beer. Desdemona: O most lame and impotent conclusion!

If it were now to die, ’Twere now to be most happy.

You are pictures out of doors, Bells in your parlors, wildcats in your kitchens, Saints in your injuries, devils being offended, Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds.

To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on.

The weariest and most loathed worldly life That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment Can lay on nature is a paradise To what we fear of death.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison’d in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.

The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.

The miserable have no other medicine But only hope.

The miserable have no other medicine But only hope.

But man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he’s most assur’d, His glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As make the angels weep.

But man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he’s most assur’d, His glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As make the angels weep.

Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win, By fearing to attempt.

Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win, By fearing to attempt.

All impediments in fancy’s course Are motives of more fancy.

Love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried.

Praising what is lost Makes the remembrance dear.

My friends were poor, but honest. 41