Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.
Not exactly Shakespeare? As to "shake-a-spear"? You calling me a spear chucker?
Not exactly Shakespeare? As to "shake-a-spear"? You calling me a spear chucker?
"Frailty, thy name is woman"
"What an ass am I!"
"How can'st thou be out of breath, when thou hast the breath to say to me that thou art out of breath???"
There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered
"Friendship is present in all things but love"
Speak low, if you speak love
"Oh, i am slain!"
"He jests at scars that never felt a wound"
By me sad hours seem long...
Tis not so deep as a well, nor wide as a church door, but mind you tis enough. Ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man.
"Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win By fearing to attempt."
Lord, what fools these mortals be!
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
"My only love sprung from my only hate Too early seen unknown, and known too late." Juliet, Romeo and Juliet
It is a heretic which builds a fire, not she who burns in't.
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
"I was the more decieved..." -Ophelia from "Hamlet"
The course of true love never did run smooth.
I would I were a weaver.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and there for is wing'd cupid painted blind.
Love is merely a maddness.
the miserable have no other medicine But only hope.
The course of true love never did run smooth
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now; your gambols, your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chap-fallen? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come.
Rome's just a city like anywhere else. A vastly overrated city, I'd say. It trades on belief just as Stratford trades on Shakespeare.
If you had a million Shakespeares, could they write like a monkey?
If it falls your lot to be a street sweeper, sweep streets like Michelangelo painted pictures, like Shakespeare wrote poetry, like Beethoven composed music; sweep streets so well that all the host of Heaven and Earth will have to pause and say,"Here lived a great sweeper, who swept his job well
The art of our era is not art, but technology. Today Rembrandt is painting automobiles; Shakespeare is writing research reports; Michelangelo is designing more efficient bank lobbies. () sr
