Quotes About Nature

Find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

Who will not change a raven for a dove?

Thou art the thing itself: unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor bare, forked animal as thou art.

Tongues in trees, books in running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty As surfeit is the father of much fast, So every scope of the immoderate use Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue, - Like rats that ravin down their proper bane, - A thirsty evil; and when we drink we die.

Here's flowers for you; hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold.

Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops. Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.

What a piece of work is man!

O' what may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!

Lady Macduff: [To her son] Sirrah, your father's dead: And What will you do now? How will you live? Son: As birds do, mother. Lady Macduff: What, with worms and flies? Son: With what I get, I mean. and so do they

Kingdoms are clay: our dungy earth alike Feeds beast as man.

Suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o'er-step not the modesty of nature;

Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand...

That will be ere the set of sun.

I think he'll be to Rome as is the osprey to the fish, who takes it by sovereignty of nature.

How now, my love? Why is your cheek so pale? How chance the roses there do fade so fast? Her. Belike for want of rain, which I could well beteem them from the tempest of my eyes.

Things growing to themselves are growth's abuse: Seeds spring from seeds and beauty breedeth beauty;

As wicked dew as e'er my mother brushed With raven's feather from unwholesom fen Drop on you both! A southwest blow on ye And blister you all o'er!

When he is best he is a little worst than a man, and when he is worst he is a little better than a beast.

Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' th' milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great, Art not without ambition, but without (15) The illness should attend it.

I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come (Phebe)

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

His nature is too noble for the world: He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, Or Jove for's power to thunder. His heart's his mouth: What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent; And, being angry, does forget that ever He heard the name of Death.

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