Emotions and Feelings

The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation.

Mine honor is my life; both grow in one; Take honor from me, and my life is done.

This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror.

Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.

I beg cold comfort.

The day shall not be up so soon as I, To try the fair adventure of tomorrow.

I am amaz’d, methinks, and lose my way Among the thorns and dangers of this world.

A scepter snatch’d with an unruly hand Must be as boisterously maintain’d as gain’d; And he that stands upon a slippery place Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up.

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale, Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.

Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form.

Thou wear a lion’s hide! doff it for shame, And hang a calf’s-skin on those recreant limbs.

The sun’s o’ercast with blood: fair day, adieu! Which is the side that I must go withal? I am with both: each army hath a hand; And in their rage, I having hold of both, They whirl asunder and dismember me.

The sun’s o’ercast with blood: fair day, adieu! Which is the side that I must go withal? I am with both: each army hath a hand; And in their rage, I having hold of both, They whirl asunder and dismember me.

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; For grief is proud and makes his owner stoop.

Mad world! mad kings, mad composition!

’Zounds! I was never so bethump’d with words Since I first call’d my brother’s father dad.

For courage mounteth with occasion.

Whose valor plucks dead lions by the beard. 8

A merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour’s talk withal.

Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain Which, with pain purchas’d doth inherit pain.

Except I be by Silvia in the night, There is no music in the nightingale.

That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man, If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.

Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor: For ’tis the mind that makes the body rich; And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, So honor peereth in the meanest habit.