Quotes
Quotes about Art
Forever, and forever, farewell, Cassius!
If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;
If not, why then this parting was well made.
What are these
So wither'd and so wild in their attire,
That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth,
And yet are on 't?
The earth hath bubbles as the water has,
And these are of them.
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,
Against the use of nature. Present fears
Are less than horrible imaginings.
There's no art
To find the mind's construction in the face.
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout.
Tongue nor heart
Cannot conceive nor name thee!
Show his eyes, and grieve his heart;
Come like shadows, so depart!
Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell,
Uproar the universal peace, confound
All unity on earth.
Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak
Whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break.
O, I could play the woman with mine eyes
And braggart with my tongue.
My way of life
Is fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf;
And that which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but in their stead
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.
Doct. Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies,
That keep her from her rest.
Macb. Cure her of that.
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
Doct. Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
Macb. Throw physic to the dogs: I 'll none of it.
For this relief much thanks: 't is bitter cold,
And I am sick at heart.
And then it started like a guilty thing
Upon a fearful summons.
Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air,
The extravagant and erring spirit hies
To his confine.
So have I heard, and do in part believe it.
But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill.
The head is not more native to the heart.
Foul deeds will rise,
Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.
My fate cries out,
And makes each petty artery in this body
As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.
I am thy father's spirit,
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,
And for the day confin'd to fast in fires,
Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature
Are burnt and purg'd away. But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres,
Thy knotted and combined locks to part
And each particular hair to stand an end,
Like quills upon the fretful porpentine:
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O, list!
Art thou there, truepenny?
Come on--you hear this fellow in the cellarage.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
More matter, with less art.
