Even if you walk exactly the same route each time - as with a sonnet - the events along the route cannot be imagined to be the same from day to day, as the poet's health, sight, his anticipations, moods, fears, thoughts cannot be the same.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. 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 proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
Love bears it out even to the edge of doom.
A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.
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.
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.
Love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Everything nourishes what is strong already
All's well that ends well.
All is well that ends well
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.
I thought I'd begin by reading a poem by Shakespeare, but then I thought, why should I? He never reads any of mine.
Men at some time are masters of their fates.
One man in his time plays many parts.
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
Shall I compare thee to a summer day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate... When in eternal lines to time thou growst So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
If music be the food of love, play on.
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.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.
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