There's beggary in the love that can be reckoned.

Kingdoms are clay; our dungy earth alike

Feeds beast as man.

I love long life better than figs.

None but your sheets are privy to your wishes.

If an oily palm be not a fruitful prognostication, I cannot scratch mine ear.

The nature of bad news infects the teller.

In time we hate that which we often fear.

Eternity was in our lips and eyes,

Bliss in our brows' bent; none our parts so poor

But was a race of heaven.

Though age from folly could not give me freedom,

It does from childishness.

O, my oblivion is a very Antony,

And I am all forgotten.

Our separation so abides and flies

That thou, residing here, goes yet with me,

And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee.

Away!

It hath been taught us from the primal state

That he which is was wished until he were,

And the ebbed man, ne'er loved till ne'er worth love,

Comes deared by being lacked. This common body,

Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream,

Goes to, and back, lackeying the varying tide,

To rot itself with motion.

My salad days,

When I was green in judgment.

Every time serves for the matter that is then born in't.

Small to greater matters must give way.

That which combined us was most great, and let not

A leaner action rend us. What's amiss,

May it be gently heard. When we debate

Our trivial difference loud, we do commit

Murder in healing wounds. Then, noble partners,

The rather for I earnestly beseech,

Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms,

Nor curstness grow to th'matter.

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,

Burned 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 beggared all description.

Music--moody food

Of us that trade in love.

I will praise any man that will praise me.

Let not the piece of virtue which is set

Betwixt us, as the cement of our love

To keep it builded, be the ram to batter

The fortress of it. For better might we

Have loved without this mean, if on both parts

This not be cherished.

Egypt, thou knew'st too well

My heart was to thy rudder tied by th' strings,

And thou shouldst tow me after.

Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates

All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss.

Women are not

In their best fortunes strong, but want will perjure

the ne'er-touched vestal.

He wears the rose

Of youth upon him.

I see men’s judgments are

A parcel of their fortunes, and things outward

Do draw the inward quality after them,

To suffer all alike.

I and my sword will earn our chronicle.

Let's have one other gaudy night: call to me

All my sad captains; fill our bowls once more;

Let's mock the midnight bell.

I'll make death love me; for I will contend

Even with his pestilent scythe.

To be furious,

Is to be frighted out of fear; and in that mood

The dove will peck the estridge.

When valour preys on reason,

It eats the sword it fights with.

To business that we love we rise betime,

And go to 't with delight.

All strange and terrible events are welcome,

But comforts we despise.

What's brave, what's noble,

Let's do it after the high Roman fashion,

And make death proud to take us.

Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonish;

A vapour sometime like a bear or lion,

A towered citadel, a pendent rock,

A forked mountain, or blue promontory

With trees upon 't, that nod unto the world

And mock our eyes with air.

That which is now a horse, even with a thought

The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct,

As water is in water.

I will be

A bridegroom in my death, and run into 't

As to a lover's bed.

None but Antony

Should conquer Antony.

O, withered is the garland of the war,

The soldier's pole is fallen; young boys and girls

Are level now with men; the odds is gone,

And there is nothing left remarkable

Beneath the visiting moon.

'Tis paltry to be Caesar;

Not being Fortune, he's but Fortune's knave,

A minister of her will: and it is great

To do that thing that ends all other deeds;

Which shackles accidents and bolts up change;

Which sleeps, and never palates more the dug,

The beggar's nurse and Caesar's.

What poor an instrument may do a noble deed!

My resolution's placed, and I have nothing

Of woman in me: now from head to foot

I am marble-constant; now the fleeting moon

No planet is of mine.

I know that a woman is a dish for the gods,

if the devil dress her not.

I wish you all joy of the worm.

I am fire and air; my other elements

I give to baser life.

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