Emotions and Feelings

Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou com’st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee.

When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul Lends the tongue vows.

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar; Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel.

The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmask her beauty to the moon; Virtue itself ’scapes not calumnious strokes; The canker galls the infants of the spring Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d, And in the morn and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent.

A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.

Distill’d Almost to jelly with the act of fear.

Season your admiration for a while.

It is not nor it cannot come to good.

It is not nor it cannot come to good.

Like Niobe, all tears.

Like Niobe, all tears.

Why, she would hang on him, As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on.

O! that this too too solid 30 flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew; Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d His canon ’gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this world.

Things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this!

Things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this!

To persever In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness; ’tis unmanly grief: It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, A heart unfortified, a mind impatient.

Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not “seems.” ’Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black.

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

And then it started like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons.

For this relief much thanks; ’tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart.

It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o’er the green corn-field did pass, In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.

I am falser than vows made in wine.

The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

Down on your knees, And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love.