Share this page: Come my Celia, let us prove, While we can, the sports of love; Time will not be ours forever, He at length our good will sever. Spend not then his gifts in vain; Suns that set may rise again, But if once we lose this light, 'Tis with us perpetual night. Why should we defer our joys? Fame and rumour are but toys. -- "Song, To Celia", lines 1-10. Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. -- "Song, To Celia", lines 1-16. Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! My Shakespeare, rise; I will not lodge thee by Chaucer or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room; Thou art a monument, without a tomb, And art alive still, while thy book doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give. -- "To the Memory of My Beloved, the Author, Mr. William Shakespeare" (1618), lines 17-24 He was not of an age, but for all time! -- "To the Memory of My Beloved, the Author, Mr. William Shakespeare" (1618), line 43 Art hath an enemy call'd ignorance. -- "Every Man out of His Humour" (1598), Act I, scene 1. Calumnies are answered best with silence. -- Volpone (1606), Act II, scene ii. Thou look'st like Antichrist in that lewd hat. -- The Alchemist (1610), Act IV, scene vii. I now think, Love is rather deaf, than blind, For else it could not be, That she, Whom I adore so much, should so slight me, And cast my love behind. -- Underwoods, IX, "My Picture Left in Scotland", lines 1-5. Where dost thou careless lie, Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps, doth die; And this security, It is the common moth, That eats on wits and arts, and oft destroys them both. -- Underwoods, XXIII, "An Ode, to Himself", lines 1-6. Share this page:

The selection of the above quotes and the writing of the accompanying notes was performed by the author David Paul Wagner. About Us • Contact Us • Privacy • Terms of Use © 2005-23 Wide World of Quotes. All Rights Reserved.