Others

One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens.

A maiden never bold; Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion Blush’d at herself.

Truth is truth To the end of reckoning.

Music oft hath such a charm To make bad good, and good provoke to harm.

I hold you as a thing ensky’d and sainted.

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

This fellow’s wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well craves a kind of wit.

Music from the spheres. 39

’Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on: Lady, you are the cruel’st she alive, If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.

If music be the food of love, 37 play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again! it had a dying fall: O! it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odor!

Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.

Beauty, wit, High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.

For to be wise, and love, Exceeds man’s might; that dwells with gods above.

Modest doubt is call’d The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To the bottom of the worst.

Like a strutting player, whose conceit Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich To hear the wooden dialogue and sound ’Twixt his stretch’d footing and the scaffoldage.

A rhapsody of words.

See, what a grace was seated on this brow; Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself, An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, A station like the herald Mercury New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill, A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man.

The glass of fashion and the mould of form, The observ’d of all observers!

The play’s the thing Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.

Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth; And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, With windlasses and with assays of bias, By indirections find directions out.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

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

Beware Of entrance to a quarrel, but, being in, Bear ’t that th’ opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice; Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man.

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.