The summer's flower is to the summer sweet Though to itself it only live and die
Of all knowledge, the wise and good seek mostly to know themselves.
He that hath the steerage of my course, Direct my sail.
His life was gentle; and the elements So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN!
Tongues in trees, books in running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him; The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones
What's done cannot be undone.
This above all: to thine own self be true.
Out of this nettle - danger - we pluck this flower - safety.
Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.
My soul is in the sky.
These violent delights have violent ends.
Women may fall when there's no strength in men. Act II
So wise so young, they say, do never live long.
A knavish speech sleeps in a fool's ear.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither. Ripeness is all.
Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know.
Life is nothing more than an illusion. Itβs like a poor actor who struts and worries for his hour on the stage and then is never heard from again. Life is a story told by an idiot, full of noise and emotional disturbance but devoid of meaning.
thus with a kiss I die
