Life and Existence

The weakest kind of fruit Drops earliest to the ground.

An unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractic’d; Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn.

Young in limbs, in judgment old.

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.

In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, I shot his fellow of the selfsame flight The selfsame way with more advised watch, To find the other forth, and by adventuring both, I oft found both.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one.

Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave, But not remember’d in thy epitaph!

I could have better spar’d a better man.

This earth, that bears thee dead, Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.

But thought’s the slave of life, and life time’s fool; And time, that takes survey of all the world, Must have a stop. O! I could prophesy, But that the earthy and cold hand of death Lies on my tongue.

Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere.

The time of life is short; To spend that shortness basely were too long.

The time of life is short; To spend that shortness basely were too long.

Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily.

To the latter end of a fray and the beginning of a feast Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest.

Baited like eagles having lately bath’d… As full of spirit as the month of May, And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer.

I saw young Harry, with his beaver on.

The end of life cancels all bands.

I understand thy kisses and thou mine, And that’s a feeling disputation.

Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions.

To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose, And plant this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke.

I know you all, and will a while uphold The unyok’d humor of your idleness: Yet herein will I imitate the sun, Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world, That when he please again to be himself, Being wanted, he may be more wonder’d at, By breaking through the foul and ugly mists Of vapors that did seem to strangle him. If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work.

I know you all, and will a while uphold The unyok’d humor of your idleness: Yet herein will I imitate the sun, Who doth permit the base contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world, That when he please again to be himself, Being wanted, he may be more wonder’d at, By breaking through the foul and ugly mists Of vapors that did seem to strangle him. If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work.

Over whose acres walk’d those blessed feet Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail’d For our advantage on the bitter cross.