To feed were best at home; From thence, the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it.
If I can cross him any way, I bless myself every way.
Miranda. My husband, then? Ferdinand. Ay, with a heart as willing As bondage e'er of freedom. Here's my hand. Miranda. And mine, with my heart in 't.
Take but degree away, untune that string, And hark what discord follows! ... Force should be right, or, rather, right and wrong— Between whose endless jar justice resides— Should lose their names, and so should justice too. Then everything includes itself in power, Power into will, will into appetite; And appetite, an universal wolf, So doubly seconded with will and power, Must make perforce an universal prey, And last eat up himself.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs, Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes, Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall and a preserving sweet.
Titania. What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love? Bottom. I have a reasonable good ear in music. Let's have the tongs and the bones.
Thieves for their robbery have authority When judges steal themselves.
He must be taught, and trained, and bid go forth: A barren-spirited fellow; one that feeds On objects, arts, and imitations, Which, out of use and staled by other men, Begin his fashion.
He hath achieved a maid That paragons description and wild fame; One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens.
I count myself in nothing else so happy As in a soul remembering my good friends.