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From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty’s rose might never die.

An angel! or, if not, An earthly paragon!

As chaste as unsunn’d snow.

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, And Phoebus ’gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic’d flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With everything that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.

See, where she comes apparell’d like the spring.

Chaste as the icicle That’s curdied by the frost from purest snow, And hangs on Dian’s temple.

My gracious silence, hail!

Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies A lass unparallel’d.

I have Immortal longings in me.

The quick comedians Extemporally will stage us, and present Our Alexandrian revels. Antony Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness I’ the posture of a whore.

His legs bestrid the ocean; his rear’d arm Crested the world; his voice was propertied As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends; But when he meant to quail and shake the orb, He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty, There was no winter in ’t, an autumn ’twas That grew the more by reaping; his delights Were dolphin-like, they show’d his back above The element they liv’d in; in his livery Walk’d crowns and crownets, realms and islands were As plates dropp’d from his pocket.

Music, moody food Of us that trade in love.

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety; other women cloy The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies; for vilest things Become themselves in her, that the holy priests Bless her when she is riggish.

The barge she sat in, like a burnish’d throne, Burn’d on the water; the poop was beaten gold, Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It beggar’d all description.

When we are born, we cry that we are come To this great stage of fools.

Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest.

Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides; Who covers faults, at last shame them derides.

Lear: So young, and so untender? Cordelia: So young, my lord, and true.

And smooth as monumental alabaster.

Put out the light, and then put out the light: If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me; but once put out thy light, Thou cunning’st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume.

He hath a daily beauty in his life.

Take note, take note, O world! To be direct and honest is not safe.

Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter.

She that was ever fair and never proud, Had tongue at will and yet was never loud.