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- Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), Sonnet CXVI
- Love is begun by time; and that I see in passages of proof, time qualifies the spark and fire of it. There lives within the very flame of love a kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.
- William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), Hamlet, Act IV, sc. 7
- What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.
- William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), Hamlet, Act IV, sc. 4
- A woman impudent and mannish grown is not more loathed than an effeminate man in time of action.
- William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), Troilus and Cressida, Act III, sc. 3
- When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many things I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), Sonnet XXX
- Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze
By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods; Since nought so stockish, hard and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), The Merchant of Venice, Act V, sc. 1
- Nature does require her times of preservation.
- William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), Henry VIII, Act III, sc. 2
- In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, when birds do sing... sweet lovers love the spring.
- William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), As You Like It, Act V, sc. 3
- That time of year thou may'st in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,- Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. - William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), Sonnet LXXIII
- The purest treasure mortal times afford is spotless reputation; that away, men are but gilded loam or painted clay.
- William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), Richard II, Act I, sc. I
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