There's a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads onto fortune, omitted, all their voyages end in shallows and miseries. Upon such tide are we now...
Je vous ai ouï dire que l’honneur et la politique, comme deux amis inséparables, marchaient de compagnie à la guerre. Eh bien ! dites-moi quel tort l’un fait à l’autre dans la paix, pour qu’ils ne s’y trouvent pas également unis ?
I do believe, induced by potent circumstances That thou art mine enemy.
The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?
So may the outward shows be least themselves: The world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
We, ignorant of ourselves, Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers Deny us for our good; so find we profit By losing of our prayers.
Master, go on, and I will follow thee To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, By self-example mayst thou be denied.
Mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes.
One doth not know / How much an ill word may empoison liking.
Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
Let every man be master of his time.
Love is not love Which alters when alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: Oh, no, it is an ever-fixèd mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken.
agar vaght ra talaf konid zamani fara miresad ke vaght shoma ra talaf mikonad.
Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.
Four days will quickly steep themselves in nights; Four nights will quickly dream away the time.
When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And summer's green all girded up in sheaves Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, Then of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake And die as fast as they see others grow; And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty face from day to day.
