Why, what's the matter,
That you have such a February face,
So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?
I do believe you think what now you speak, but what we do determine oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory, of violent birth, but poor validity, which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree, but fall, unshaken, when they mellow be. Most unnecessary 'tis that we forget to pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt. What to ourselves in passion we propose, the passion ending, doth the purpose lose. The violence of either grief or joy their own enactures with themselves destroy. Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament. Grief joys, joy grieves on slender accident. This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strange that even our loves should with our fortunes change. For 'tis a question left us yet to prove, whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love. The great man down, you mark his favorite flies. The poor advanced makes friends of enemies. And hitherto doth love on fortune tend, for who not needs shall never lack a friend, and who in want a hollow friend doth try, directly seasons him his enemy. But, orderly to end where I begun, our wills and fates do so contrary run that our devices still are overthrown. Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own. So think thou wilt no second husband wed, but die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead.
William ShakespeareLet us not burthen our remembrance with
A heaviness that's gone.
Mots clés past sadness memories
In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote;
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast* with thee alone*:
But my five wits* nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man*,
Thy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
Mots clés sonnet-141
Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
William ShakespeareMots clés madness
الغرور نعمه لأصحاب النفوس الضعيفه
William ShakespeareMots clés love
Conversation should be pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, free without indecency, learned without conceitedness, novel without falsehood.
William ShakespeareMots clés talkin-talk
Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive
If you will lead these graces to the grave
And leave the world no copy.
Mots clés twelfth-night
Goats and monkies!
William ShakespeareMots clés humor
A gross hag
And, lozel, thou art worthy to be hang'd, That wilt not stay her tongue.
ANTIGONUS ~ Hang all the husbands
That cannot do that feat, you'll leave yourself Hardly one subject.
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