You would pluck out the heart of my mystery.
Love this angry line from Hamlet. We all deserve a little mystery.
When valor preys on reason it eats the sword it fights with.
Strange it is that nature must compel us to lament our most persisted deeds.
There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; it blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
There’s differency between a grub and a butterfly; yet your butterfly was a grub.
My rage is gone, and I am struck with sorrow.
Many a thousand widows shall this his mock mock out of their dear husbands; Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down.
If thou canst love me for this, take me: if not, to say to thee I shall die is true, but for thy love by the Lord no. Yet I love thee.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by and idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear, seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.
If one should be a prey, how much better to fall before the lion than the wolf.
The earth that’s nature’s mother is her tomb. What is her burying grave, that is her womb. … Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied. And vice sometimes by action dignified.
Archived Post
This post is archived from my account on li.st, a social media app that shut down in 2017. Some posts have been edited slightly to fix typographical errors and correctly represent the gender of some individuals. You can view the full archive here.