Quotes About Beauty

Ven, noche gentil, noche tierna y sombría, dame a mi Romeo y, cuando yo muera, córtalo en mil estrellas menudas: lucirá tan hermoso el firmamento que el mundo, enamorado de la noche, dejará de adorar al sol hiriente.

The skies are painted with unnumber'd sparks, They are all fire and every one doth shine

she did lie In her pavillion--cloth-of-gold of tissue-- O'er-picturing that Venus where we see The fancy out-work nature

Kind sir, give me a good fortune. Fortuneteller: I don't make fortunes; I only see them. Charmian: Then see a good one for me. Fortuneteller: Your beauty will be even greater than it is now. Charmian (to the others) He means I'll get fat. Iras No, he means you'll use makeup when you're old. Fortuneteller: You will love more than you are loved. Charmian: I had rather heat my liver with drinking.

More flow'rs I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or color it had stol'n from thee.

She is herself a dowry.

Pero el amor puede transformar en belleza y dignidad cosas bajas y viles, porque no ve con los ojos, sino con la mente, y por eso pinta ciego a Cupido el alado. Ni tiene en su mente el amor señal alguna de discernimiento; como que las alas y la ceguera son signos de imprudente premura. Y por ella se dice que el amor es niño, siendo tan a menudo engañado en la elección. Y como en sus juegos perjuran los muchachos traviesos, así el rapaz amor es perjurado en todas partes.

Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

Look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold!

Oh, what a world is this when what is comely Envenoms him that bears it!

What, is the jay more precious than the lark Because his feathers are more beautiful? Or is the adder better than the eel Because his painted skin contents the eye?

If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say 'this poet lies! Such heaven never touched earthly faces

Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent: For women are as roses, whose fair flower, Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good; A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly; A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud; A brittle that's broken presently; A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour. And as goods lost are seld or never found, As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh, As flowers dead lie withered on the ground, As broken glass no cement can redress; So beauty blemished once, for ever lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost.

That which we call a rose      By any other name would smell as sweet;

When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires, And these, who, often drowned, could never die, Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars! One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.

For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, Than women's are. ... For women are as roses, whose fair flow'r Being once display'd doth fall that very hour. Viola: And so they are; alas, that they are so! To die, even when they to perfection grow!

O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night As a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear - Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.

But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn, Grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness.

Beauty is all very well at first sight; but whoever looks at it when it has been in the house three days?

Nature is fine in love, and where 'tis fine, it sends some precious instance of itself after the thing it loves.

the pleached bower, Where honeysuckles ripened by the sun Forbid the sun to enter, like favorites Made proud by princes, that advance their pride Against that power that bred it.

O thou weed, Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet

Their images I loved I view in thee And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.