Quotes About Regret

What if this cursed hand were thicker than itself with brother's blood, is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens to wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy but to confront the visage of offense? And what's in prayer but this twofold force, to be forestalled ere we come to fall, or pardoned being down? Then I'll look up. My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer can serve my tern? 'Forgive me my foul murder'?

To bed, to bed! There's a knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What's done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed!

What our contempt often hurls from us, We wish it our again; the present pleasure, By revolution lowering, does become The opposite of itself

Throw my heart Against the flint and hardness of my fault: Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder, And finish all foul thoughts.

Mi pecado en tu boca se ha purgado. JULIETA Pecado que en mi boca quedaría. ROMEO Repruebas con dulzura. ¿Mi pecado? ¡Devuélvemelo!

Alack, when once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right; we would and we would not.

What if this cursed hand were thicker than itself with brother's blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens to wash it white as snow?

A nacido lo único que amo de lo único que odio! ¡Demasiado temprano te encontré sin conocerte y demasiado tarde te conozco!

Let not light see my black and deep desires. They eye wink at the hand, yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see.

Non si apprezza il valore di quel che abbiamo mentre ne godiamo, ma appena lo perdiamo e ci manca, lo sopravvalutiamo, e gli troviamo il pregio che il possesso rendeva invisibile, fino a che era nostro.

The thing that is so singular and stunning about Macbeth— indeed, it strikes one straightaway—is that all the magic Shakespeare put into writing it manages so entirely to harrow and astonish the soul.

You'll rue the time That clogs me with this answer.

I am in So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin.

Not Cassio kill'd! then murder's out of tune, And sweet revenge grows harsh. DESDEMONA O, falsely, falsely murder'd!

O, she was foul!— I scarce did know you, uncle; there lies your niece, Whose breath, indeed, these hands have newly stopp'd: I know this act shows horrible and grim. GRATIANO Poor Desdemona! I am glad thy father's dead: Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain: did he live now, This sight would make him do a desperate turn, Yea, curse his better angel from his side, And fall to reprobance. OTHELLO 'Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows That she with Cassio hath

Friends, I owe more tears to this dead man than you shall see me pay —I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time.

And every day past is just another step for fools on the way to their deaths.

Lips, let sour words go by and language end: What is amiss plague and infection mend! Graves only be men's works and death their gain! Sun, hide thy beams! Timon hath done his reign.

Better thou hadst not been born than not t' have pleased me better.

Qué tristeza alarga las horas de Romeo? No tener lo que, al tenerlo, las abrevia.

repentance to the

Oh, Daddy, I don't know what's wrong. I've tried to grow up—to be a good little girl, as you would say, but everywhere I turn I seem to walk deeper and deeper into some terrible despair. What's wrong, Daddy? What's wrong? Why is happiness such a precious thing? What have we done with our lives so that everywhere we turn—no matter how hard we try not to—we cause other people sorrow?

What causes human beings to inflict upon themselves these stupid little scissor snips of unhappy remembrance?

I knew all along that the prize I had set my life on was not worth the winning.