We are going to a new world... and no doubt it is there that everything is for the best; for it must be admitted that one might lament a little over the physical and moral happenings of our own world.

What most persons consider as virtue, after the age of 40 is simply a loss of energy.

Blessed is one who adds to the happiness of another.

Ay, gentle Thurio, for you know that love Wilt creep in service where it cannot go.

But love, first learnèd in a lady's eyes, lives not alone immurèd in the brain, but, with the motion of all elements, courses as swift as thought in every power, and gives to every power a double power, above their functions and their offices. It adds a precious seeing to the eye; a lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind; a lover's ears will hear the lowest sound, when the suspicious head of theft is stopped: love's feeling is more soft and sensible than are the tender horns of cockled snails: love's tongue proves dainty Baccus gross in taste. For valour, is not love a Hercules, still climbing trees in the Hesperides? Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical as bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair; and when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods makes heaven drowsy with the harmony. Never durst poet touch a pen to write until his ink were tempered with Love's sighs. Love’s Labour’s Lost, Act iv, Scene 3

But yet the pity of it, Iago! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago! Othello, Act iv, Scene 1

A judgment is the mental act by which one thing is affirmed or denied of another.

For Queen Diana did my body change into a fork-tongued dragon flesh and fell, and through the island nightly do I range, or in the green sea mate with monsters strange, when in the middle of the moonlit night the sleepy mariner I do affright.

We often pass from love to ambition, but we hardly ever pass from ambition to love.

We promise according to our hopes, but perform according to our selfishness and our fears.

Women's virtue is frequently nothing but a regard to their own quiet and a tenderness for their reputation.

O my good lord, why are you thus alone? For what offense have I this fortnight been a banished woman from my Harry's bed? Tell me, sweet lord, what is't that takes from thee thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep? Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth, and start so often when thou sit'st alone? Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks and given my treasures and my rights of thee to thick-eyed musing and cursed melancholy? In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watched, and heard thee murmur tales of iron wars, speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed, cry 'courage! To the field!' and thou hast talked of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents, of Palisadoes, frontiers, parapets, of basilisks, of cannon, culverin, of prisoners' ransom, and of soldiers slain, and all the currents of a heady fight. Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war, and thus hath so bestirred thee in thy sleep, that beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow like bubbles in a late-disturbèd stream, and in thy face strange motions have appeared, such as we see when men restrain their breath on some great sudden hest. O, what portents are these? Some heavy business hath my lord in hand, and I must know it, else he loves me not. Henry IV, Act ii, Scene 3

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, that I am meek and gentle with these butchers! Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood! Julius Caesar (Antony at III, i)

O, reason not the need! Our basest beggars are in the poorest thing superfluous. Allow not nature more than nature needs, man's life is cheap as beast's. Thou art a lady; if only to go warm were gorgeous, why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st, which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need— you heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!

We get no good by being ungenerous, even to a book, and calculating profits--so much help by so much reading. It is rather when we gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound, impassioned for its beauty, and salt of truth—‘tis then we get the right good from a book.

Let us remember that sorrow alone is the creator of great things.