Emotions and Feelings

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

It were all one That I should love a bright particular star And think to wed it, he is so above me.

Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use, and keep thy friend Under thy own life’s key: be check’d for silence, But never tax’d for speech.

Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use, and keep thy friend Under thy own life’s key: be check’d for silence, But never tax’d for speech.

I hate ingratitude more in a man Than lying, vainness, babbling drunkenness, Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption Inhabits our frail blood.

Out of my lean and low ability I’ll lend you something.

O! what a deal of scorn looks beautiful In the contempt and anger of his lip.

O! what a deal of scorn looks beautiful In the contempt and anger of his lip.