Quotebook

Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon. Litcharts: My eyes smell onions. I'm going to weep.

Is there no exorcist Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes? Is't real that I see? Litcharts: Is there no sorcerer who has bewitched me to see what my eyes present to me? Is what I see real?

I am wrapp'd in dismal thinkings. Litcharts: I am overwhelmed by terrible thoughts. 

From the great compt: but love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offence, Crying, That’s good that’s gone. Our rash faults Make trivial price of serious things we have, Not knowing them until we know their grave. Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust, Destroy our friends, and after weep their dust: Our own love waking cries to see what’s done, While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon.

All is whole. Not one word more of the consumed time. Let's take the instant by the forward top; For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees The inaudible and noiseless foot of time Steals ere we can effect them. Litcharts: You're fully pardoned. Don't speak one word more about the time that's passed. Let's seize the day. I'm old, and the silent foot of Father Time appears before I can get anything done.

Praising what is lost Makes the remembrance dear. Litcharts: When we praise what we've lost, it makes remembering even more dear to us.

And I beseech your majesty to make it Natural rebellion, done i' the blaze of youth, When oil and fire, too strong for reason's force, O'erbears it and burns on. Litcharts: "I beg your majesty to think of it as natural, youthful rebellion, like when oil and fire refuse to listen to reason, and burn in spite of what they're told."

All's well that ends well yet, Though time seem so adverse and means unfit.

’Twas a good lady, ’twas a good lady. We may pick a thousand salads ere we light on such another herb.

“This is a dreadful sentence.”

I know I love in vain, strive against hope; Yet in this captious and inteemable sieve I still pour in the waters of my love And lack not to lose still. Thus, Indian-like, Religious in mine error, I adore The sun that looks upon his worshipper, But knows of him no more.

How strange it is that our blood, its color and weight and heat, when you pour all our blood together, all looks the same but we still put so much stock in social differences.

Strange is it that our bloods, Of colour, weight, and heat, pour’d all together, Would quite confound distinction, yet stands off In differences so mighty.

What I can offer can hardly hurt to try since you're convinced you're beyond curing. God often does great deeds through the weakest of humans. We have seen this when the youth have shown holy judgement, when judges have been youths. Great floods have come from small sources, and great seas have dried up when the most powerful have said miracles were impossible. Often, our expectation fails exactly where we think success most likely to happen, and often we get what we prayed for where hope seems weakest and it seems to make the most sense to despair.

What I can do can do no hurt to try, Since you set up your rest 'gainst remedy. He that of greatest works is finisher Oft does them by the weakest minister. So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown, When judges have been babes; great floods have flown From simple sources, and great seas have dried When miracles have by the greatest been denied. Oft expectation fails and most oft there. Where most it promises, and oft it hits Where hope is coldest and despair most fits.

All's well that end's well. The conclusion is the crowning moment. Whatever the means, the end is what will be remembered.