Quotes

Why should I play the Roman fool; and die On mine own sword?

Shepherdess, O Eiffel Tower, your flock of bridges is bleating this morning. 1

Sweet is pleasure after pain.

The harp that once through Tara’s halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls As if that soul were fled.

Your mind is tossing on the ocean.

I bear a charmed life.

Under Pont Mirabeau flows the Seine. 3

Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And welt’ring in his blood; Deserted, at his utmost need, By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth expos’d he lies, With not a friend to close his eyes.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms Which I gaze on so fondly today, Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms, Like fairy gifts fading away, Thou would’st still be ador’d as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, Nor to one place.

Young man I think I know you—I think this face is the face of the Christ himself, Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.

Macduff was from his mother’s womb Untimely ripp’d.

Come night, strike hour. Days go, I endure. 4

Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again.

But there’s nothing half so sweet in life As love’s young dream.

Nature hath fram’d strange fellows in her time.

And be these juggling fiends no more believ’d, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear And break it to our hope.

I hibernated in my past. 5

And, like another Helen, fir’d another Troy.

’Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone.

You have too much respect upon the world: They lose it that do buy it with much care.

Live to be the show and gaze o’ the time.

O Milky Way, sister in whiteness To Canaan’s rivers and the bright Bodies of lovers drowned, Can we follow toilsomely Your path to other nebulae? 6

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you’ll find him. His father’s sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him.

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

Lay on, Macduff, And damn’d be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”

As a white candle In a holy place, So is the beauty Of an aged face.

He rais’d a mortal to the skies, She drew an angel down.

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear.

Why should a man, whose blood is warm within, Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?

Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling.