It were a better death than die with mocks,

  Which is as bad as die with tickling.

  The Taming of the Shrew, Act IV, Scene 1

  PETRUCCIO:

  Thus have I politicly begun my reign,

  And ’tis my hope to end successfully.

  My falcon now is sharp and passing empty,

  And till she stoop she must not be full-gorged,

  For then she never looks upon her lure.

  Another way I have to man my haggard,

  To make her come and know her keeper’s call;

  That is, to watch her as we watch these kites

  That bate and beat and will not be obedient.

  She ate no meat today, nor none shall eat.

  Last night she slept not, nor tonight she shall not.

  As with the meat, some undeserved fault

  I’ll find about the making of the bed,

  And here I’ll fling the pillow, there the bolster,

  This way the coverlet, another way the sheets,

  Ay, and amid this hurly I intend

  That all is done in reverent care of her,

  And in conclusion she shall watch all night,

  And if she chance to nod I’ll rail and brawl

  And with the clamour keep her still awake.

  This is a way to kill a wife with kindness,

  And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humour.

  He that knows better how to tame a shrew,

  Now let him speak. ’Tis charity to show.

  ‘The Rape of Lucrece’, lines 281–301

  As corn o’ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear

  Is almost choked by unresisted lust.

  Away he steals with open list’ning ear,

  Full of foul hope and full of fond mistrust,

  Both which as servitors to the unjust

  So cross him with their opposite persuasion

  That now he vows a league, and now invasion.

  Within his thought her heavenly image sits,

  And in the selfsame seat sits Collatine.

  That eye which looks on her confounds his wits,

  That eye which him beholds, as more divine,

  Unto a view so false will not incline,

  But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart,

  Which once corrupted, takes the worser part,

  And therein heartens up his servile powers

  Who, flattered by their leader’s jocund show,

  Stuff up his lust as minutes fill up hours,

  And as their captain, so their pride doth grow,

  Paying more slavish tribute than they owe.

  By reprobate desire thus madly led

  The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece’ bed.

  A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act V, Scene 1

  THESEUS:

  Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,

  Such shaping fantasies that apprehend

  More than cool reason ever comprehends.

  The lunatic, the lover, and the poet

  Are of imagination all compact.

  One sees more devils than vast hell can hold:

  That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic,

  Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt.

  The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,

  Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven,

  And as imagination bodies forth

  The forms of things unknown; the poet’s pen

  Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing

  A local habitation and a name.

  Such tricks hath strong imagination

  That if it would but apprehend some joy

  It comprehends some bringer of that joy.

  Or in the night, imagining some fear;

  How easy is a bush supposed a bear!

  Romeo and Juliet, Act III, Scene 3

  ROMEO:

  ’Tis torture and not mercy. Heaven is here,

  Where Juliet lives, and every cat and dog

  And little mouse, every unworthy thing,

  Live here in heaven and may look on her,

  But Romeo may not. More validity,

  More honourable state, more courtship lives

  In carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize

  On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand,

  And steal immortal blessing from her lips,

  Who, even in pure and vestal modesty,

  Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.

  But Romeo may not; he is banished.

  Flies may do this, but I from this must fly.

  They are free men, but I am banished.

  And sayst thou yet that exile is not death?

  Hadst thou no poison mixed, no sharp-ground knife,

  No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean,

  But ‘banished’ to kill me. ‘Banished’?

  O friar, the damned use that word in hell.

  Howling attends it. How hast thou the heart,

  Being a divine, a ghostly confessor,

  A sin-absolver and my friend professed,

  To mangle me with that word ‘banished’?

  All’s Well That Ends Well, Act I, Scene 1

  HELEN:

  O were that all! I think not on my father,

  And these great tears grace his remembrance more

  Than those I shed for him. What was he like?

  I have forgot him. My imagination

  Carries no favour in’t but Bertram’s.

  I am undone. There is no living, none,

  If Bertram be away. ’Twere all one

  That I should love a bright particular star

  And think to wed it, he is so above me.

  In his bright radiance and collateral light

  Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.

  Th’ambition in my love thus plagues itself.

  The hind that would be mated by the lion

  Must die for love. ’Twas pretty, though a plague,

  To see him every hour, to sit and draw

  His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,

  In our heart’s table – heart too capable

  Of every line and trick of his sweet favour.

  But now he’s gone, and my idolatrous fancy

  Must sanctify his relics.

  Sonnet 57

  Being your slave, what should I do but tend

  Upon the hours and times of your desire?

  I have no precious time at all to spend,

  Nor services to do, till you require;

  Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour

  Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,

  Nor think the bitterness of absence sour

  When you have bid your servant once adieu;

  Nor dare I question with my jealous thought

  Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,

  But like a sad slave stay and think of naught

  Save, where you are, how happy you make those.

  So true a fool is love that in your will,

  Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.

  Love’s Labour’s Lost, Act I, Scene 2

  ARMADO: I do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn, which is a great argument of falsehood, if I love. And how can that be true love which is falsely attempted? Love is a familiar; love is a devil. There is no evil angel but love. Yet was Samson so tempted, and he had an excellent strength. Yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a very good wit. Cupid’s butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules’ club, and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard’s rapier. The first and second cause will not serve my turn: the passado he respects not, the duello he regards not. His disgrace is to be called boy, but his glory is to subdue men. Adieu, valour; rust, rapier; be still, drum; for your manager is in love, yea, he loveth. Assist me some extemporal god of rhyme, for I am sure I shall turn sonnet. Devise wit, write, pen, for I am for whole volumes, in folio.

  Romeo and Juliet, Act I, Scene 1

  ROMEO:

  Why then, O brawling love, O loving hate,

  O anything of nothing first create,

  O heavy lightness, serious vanity,

  Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms,

  Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health,

  Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is!

  This love feel I, that feel no love in this.

  Dost thou not laugh?

  BENVOLIO:

  No coz, I rather weep.

  ROMEO:

  Good heart, at what?

  BENVOLIO:

  At thy good heart’s oppression.

  ROMEO:

  Why, such is love’s transgression.

  Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,

  Which thou wilt propagate to have it pressed

  With more of thine. This love that thou hast shown

  Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.

  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.

  Antony and Cleopatra, Act IV, Scene 16

  CLEOPATRA:

  No more but e’en a woman, and commanded

  By such poor passion as the maid that milks

  And does the meanest chores. It were for me

  To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods,

  To tell them that this world did equal theirs

  Till they had stol’n our jewel. All’s but naught.

  Patience is sottish, and impatience does

  Become a dog that’s mad. Then is it sin

  To rush into the secret house of death

  Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women?

  What, what, good cheer! Why, how now, Charmian?

  My noble girls! Ah, women, women! Look,

  Our lamp is spent; it’s out. Good sires take heart.

  We’ll bury him and then what’s brave, what’s noble.

  Let’s do it after the high Roman fashion

  And make death proud to take us. Come away.

  This case of that huge spirit now is cold.

  Ah, women, women! Come. We have no friend

  But resolution, and the briefest end.

  Sonnet 26

  Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage

  Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,

  To thee I send this written embassage

  To witness duty, not to show my wit;

  Duty so great which wit so poor as mine

  May make seem bare in wanting words to show it,

  But that I hope some good conceit of thine

  In thy soul’s thought, all naked, will bestow it;

  Till whatsoever star that guides my moving

  Points on me graciously with fair aspect,

  And puts apparel on my tattered loving,

  To show me worthy of thy sweet respect.

  Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;

  Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

  The Taming of the Shrew, Act V, Scene 2

  PETRUCCIO:

  Katherine, I charge thee tell these headstrong women

  What duty they do owe their lords and husbands.

  widow:

  Come, come, you’re mocking. We will have no telling.

  PETRUCCIO:

  Come on, I say, and first begin with her.

  WIDOW:

  She shall not.

  PETRUCCIO:

  I say she shall, and first begin with her.

  KATHERINE:

  Fie, fie, unknit that threat’ning, unkind brow,

  And dart not scornful glances from those eyes

  To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor.

  It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads,

  Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,

  And in no sense is meet or amiable.

  A woman moved is like a fountain troubled,

  Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty,

  And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty

  Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it.

  Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,

  Thy head, thy sovereign, one that cares for thee,

  And for thy maintenance commits his body

  To painful labour both by sea and land,

  To watch the night in storms, and the day in cold,

  While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe,

  And craves no other tribute at thy hands

  But love, fair looks, and true obedience,

  Too little payment for so great a debt.

  Such duty as the subject owes the prince,

  Even such a woman oweth to her husband;

  And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,

  And not obedient to his honest will,

  What is she but a foul, contending rebel,

  And graceless traitor to her loving lord?

  I am ashamed that women are so simple

  To offer war where they should kneel for peace,

  Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway

  When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

  Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth,

  Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,

  But that our soft conditions and our hearts

  Should well agree with our external parts?

  Come, come, your froward and unable worms,

  My mind hath been as big as one of yours,

  My heart as great, my reason haply more,

  To bandy word for word and frown for frown;

  But now I see our lances are but straws,

  Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,

  That seeming to be most which we indeed least are.

  Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,

  And place your hands below your husband’s foot,

  In token of which duty, if he please,

  My hand is ready, may it do him ease.

  Troilus and Cressida, Act II, Scene 2

  TROILUS:

  I take today a wife, and my election

  Is led on in the conduct of my will,

  My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears,

  Two traded pilots ’twixt the dangerous shores

  Of will and judgement. How may I avoid

  Although my will distaste what it elected

  The wife I chose? There can be no evasion

  To blench from this and to stand firm by honour.

  We turn not back the silks upon the merchant

  When we have spoiled them, nor the remainder viands

  We do not throw in unrespective sewer

  Because we now are full. It was thought meet

  Paris should do some vengeance on the Greeks;

  Your breath of full consent bellied his sails,

  The seas and winds, old wranglers, took a truce

  And did him service. He touched the ports desired

  And for an old aunt whom the Greeks held captive

  He brought a Grecian Queen, whose youth and freshness

  Wrinkles Apollo’s and makes stale the morning.

  Why keep we her? The Grecians keep our aunt.

  Is she worth keeping? Why, she is a pearl

  Whose price hath launched above a thousand ships

  And turned crowned kings to merchants.

  If you’ll avouch ’twas wisdom Paris went,

  As you must needs, for you all cried, ‘Go, go!’

  If you’ll confess he brought home noble prize,

  As you must needs, for you all clapped your hands

  And cried, ‘Inestimable!’ Why do you now

  The issue of your proper wisdoms rate

  And do a deed that never fortune did:

  Beggar the estimation which you prized

  Richer than sea and land? O theft most base,

  That we have stol’n what we fear to keep!

  But thieves unworthy of a thing so stol’n,

  That in their country did them that disgrace

  We fear to warrant in our native place.

  Antony and Cleopatra, Act I, Scene 1

  PHILO:

  Nay, but this dotage of our General’s

  O’erflows the measure. Those his goodly eyes

  That o’er the files and musters of the war

  Have glowed like plated Mars, now bend, now turn

  The office and devotion of their view

  Upon a tawny front. His captain’s heart,

  Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst

  The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper,

  And is become the bellows and the fan

  To cool a gipsy’s lust.

  Flourish. Enter Antony, Cleopatra, her ladies, the train, with eunuchs fanning her.

  Look where they come.

  Take but good note and you shall see in him

  The triple pillar of the world transformed

  Into a strumpet’s fool. Behold and see.

  CLEOPATRA (to Antony): If it be love indeed, tell me how much.

  ANTONY:

  There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.

  Othello, Act I, Scene 3

  RODERIGO: What should I do? I confess it is my shame to be so fond, but it is not in my virtue to amend it.

  IAGO: Virtue? A fig! ’Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners, so that if we will plant nettles or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness or manured with industry, why, the power and incorrigible authority of this lies in our wills. If the beam of our lives had not one scale of reason to peise another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this that you call love to be a sect or scion.

  Sonnet 131

  Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,