There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
When anarchy is declared, the first thing we do, let's kill all the anarchists.
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some hire PR officers.
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.
Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
We are driven by the usual insatiable curiosity of the scientist, and our work is a delightful game
I am frequently astonished that it so often results in correct predictions of experimental results.
Love bears it out even to the edge of doom.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date . . .
Default is not in our stars, but in ourselves.
A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, (cont. Specialization is for insects.
One man in his time plays many parts.
Love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require.
Men at some time are masters of their fates.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
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.
If this be error and upon me prov'd,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.
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