Emotions and Feelings

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.

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.

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

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.

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.