Quotes About Regret

It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden;Too like the lightning, which doth cease to beEre one can say it lightens.

There, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana.

O! my offense is rank, it smells to heaven;It hath the primal eldest curse upon 't;A brother's murder!

O thou weed!Who art so lovely fair and smell'st so sweetThat the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er been born.

O God! Horatio, what a wounded name,Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me.If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,Absent thee from felicity awhile,And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,To tell my story.

Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,Unhousel'd, disappointed, unanel'd,No reckoning made, but sent to my accountWith all my imperfections on my head.

I humbly do beseech you of your pardonFor too much loving you.

Relenting fool, and shallow changing woman!

That he is mad, 'tis true; 'tis true 'tis pity;And pity 'tis 'tis true.

Howl, howl, howl, howl! O! you are men of stones:Had I your tongues and eyes, I'd use them soThat heaven's vaults should crack. She's gone forever.

Take, O take those lips away,That so sweetly were forsworn;And those eyes, the break of day,Lights that do mislead the morn:But my kisses bring again, bring again,Seals of love, but seal'd in vain, seal'd in vain.

O Hamlet! what a falling-off was there.

And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life!Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,Never, never, never, never, never!Pray you, undo this button.

Why should I play the Roman fool; and dieOn mine own sword?

Wormwood, wormwood.

Alas! 'tis true I have gone here and there,And made myself a motley to the view,Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,Made old offenses of affections new.

A purse of gold most resolutely snatched on Monday night and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning.

True is it that we have seen better days.

All my pretty ones?Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?What! all my pretty chickens and their damAt one fell swoop?

Must I hold a candle to my shames?

Had I but died an hour before this chanceI had liv'd a blessed time; for, from this instant,There's nothing serious in mortality,All is but toys; renown and grace is dead,The wine of life is drawn, and the mere leesIs left this vault to brag of.

Love that comes too late,Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried.

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;For now hath time made me his numbering clock:My thoughts are minutes.

I am in bloodStepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more,Returning were as tedious as go o'er.