Quotes About Emotions

The grief that does not speak whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break.

For to be wise and love exceeds man's might.

When the mind's free, The Body's delicate.

O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!

Music, moody food Of us that trade in love.

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad: It wearies me; you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn; And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, That I have much ado to know myself.

His jest shall savour but a shallow wit, when thousands more weep than did laugh it.

Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.

Let me play the lion too: I will roar that I will do any man's heart good to hear me. I will roar that I will make the duke say 'Let him roar again, let him roar again.

For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.

Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated

If love be rough with you, be rough with love

For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be.

So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow's heavenly; it strikes where it doth love.

No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds?

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself.

I have almost forgotten the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool'd to hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in't: I have supt full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, cannot once start me.

Before, I loved thee as a brother, John, But now, I do respect thee as my soul.

In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond...

You think I'll weep? No, I'll not weep. Storm and tempest. I have full cause of weeping, but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws, Or e're I'll weep.—O Fool, I shall go mad.

How much salt water thrown away in waste To season love, that of it doth not taste.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder

I can hardly forbear hurling things at him.