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Shakespeare quotes on pain16 But wherefore do not you a mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time? And fortify your self in your decay With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens yet unset, With virtuous Source: THE SONNETS 24 Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled, Thy beauty's form in table of my heart, My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, And perspective it is best painter's art If my slight muse do please these curious days, The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise 47 Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, And each doth good turns now unto the other, When that mine eye is famished for a look, Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother; With my love's picture then my eye doth feast, And to the painted banquet bids my heart Describe Adonis and the counterfeit, Is poorly imitated after you, On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new 'Tis thee (my self) that for my self I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days 132 Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain Yet do not so, but since I am near slain, Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain I do beseech you, sir, Since you are like to see the King before me, Commend the paper to his gracious hand; Which I presume shall render you no blame, But rather make you thank your pains for it But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree That cannot so much as a blossom yield In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry [aside] O, 'tis too true! How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience! The Source: THE TRAGEDY OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK See, sons, what things you are! How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, Their brains with care, their bones with industry; For this they have engrossed and pil'd up The cank'red heaps of strange-achieved gold; For this they have been thoughtful to invest Their sons with arts and martial exercises; When, like the bee, tolling from every flower The virtuous sweets, Our thighs with wax, our mouths with honey pack'd, We bring it to the hive, and, like the bees, Are murd'red for our pains We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us; His present and your pains we thank you for Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur [Cries] All manner of men assembled here in arms this day against God's peace and the King's, we charge and command you, in his Highness' name, to repair to your several dwelling-places; and not to wear, handle, or use, any sword, weapon, or dagger, henceforward, upon pain of death Be packing, therefore, thou that wast a knight; Henceforth we banish thee on pain of death And therefore by His Majesty I swear, Whose far unworthy deputy I am, He shall not breathe infection in this air But three days longer, on the pain of death If thou be'st Death I'll give thee England's treasure, Enough to purchase such another island, So thou wilt let me live and feel no pain Myself have often heard him say and swear That this his love was an eternal plant Whereof the root was fix'd in virtue's ground, The leaves and fruit maintain'd with beauty's sun, Exempt from envy, but not from disdain, Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain Their dwarfish pages were As cherubins, an gilt; the madams too, Not us'd to toil, did almost sweat to bear The pride upon them, that their very labour Was to them as a painting This hand of mine Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, Not painted with the crimson spots of blood This child of fancy, that Armado hight, For interim to our studies shall relate, In high-born words, the worth of many a knight From tawny Spain lost in the world's debate Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean, Needs not the painted flourish of your praise No, my complete master; but to jig off a tune at the tongue's end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime through the throat, as if you swallowed love with singing love, sometime through the nose, as if you snuff'd up love by smelling love, with your hat penthouse-like o'er the shop of your eyes, with your arms cross'd on your thin-belly doublet, like a rabbit on a spit, or your hands in your pocket, like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away Do not call it sin in me That I am forsworn for thee; Thou for whom Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love."' This will I send; and something else more plain That shall express my true love's fasting pain Her favour turns the fashion of the days; For native blood is counted painting now; And therefore red that would avoid dispraise Paints itself black, to imitate her brow To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain, And therewithal to win me, if you please, Without the which I am not to be won, You shall this twelvemonth term from day to day Visit the speechless sick, and still converse With groaning wretches; and your task shall be, With all the fierce endeavour of your wit, To enforce the pained impotent to smile The sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures; 'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew, We freely cope your courteous pains withal Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind And are you grown so high in his esteem Because I am so dwarfish and so low? How low am I, thou painted maypole? Speak 'Tis even so; For let our finger ache, and it indues Our other healthful members even to that sense Of pain What noise is this? Not dead? not yet quite dead? I that am cruel am yet merciful; I would not have thee linger in thy pain My dear dear lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation; that away, Men are but gilded loam or painted clay The sly slow hours shall not determinate The dateless limit of thy dear exile; The hopeless word of 'never to return' Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain; For they breathe truth that breathe their words -in pain My comfort is that heaven will take our souls, And plague injustice with the pains of hell We'll show thee lo as she was a maid And how she was beguiled and surpris'd, As lively painted as the deed was done I' faith, sir, you shall never need to fear; Iwis it is not halfway to her heart; But if it were, doubt not her care should be To comb your noddle with a three-legg'd stool, And paint your face, and use you like a fool What, not a word? Nay, then thou lov'st it not, And all my pains is sorted to no proof Dear, they durst not, So dear the love my people bore me; nor set A mark so bloody on the business; but With colours fairer painted their foul ends Make curl'd-pate ruffians bald, And let the unscarr'd braggarts of the war Derive some pain from you to be thought of him? Does the rumour hold for true that he's so full of gold? PAINTER Sirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison; There let them bide until we have devis'd Some never-heard-of torturing pain for them Peace, you ungracious clamours! Peace, rude sounds! Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair, When with your blood you daily paint her thus Let him be sent, great Princes, And he shall buy my daughter; and her presence Shall quite strike off all service I have done In most accepted pain I would be loath to cast away my speech; for, besides that it is excellently well penn'd, I have taken great pains to con it She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself She that would alter services with thee, THE FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY.' Daylight and champain discovers not more Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly; having nothing but the word 'noddy' for my pains The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; You'll mar it if you kiss it; stain your own With oily painting Quotes for: Shakespeare Quotes
Source: Project Gutenburg Texts
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