Quotes About Desire

He wants the natural touch.

He was a manOf an unbounded stomach.

[A]s hungry as the Sea, And can digest as much...

I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face: I had rather lie in the woollen.

Epicurean cooksSharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite.

We go to gain a little patch of groundThat hath in it no profit but the name.

And my large kingdom for a little grave,A little little grave, an obscure grave.

Now is this golden crown like a deep wellThat owes two buckets filling one another;The emptier ever dancing in the air,The other down, unseen and full of water:That bucket down and full of tears am I,Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.

Clean starved for a look.

It were all oneThat I should love a bright particular starAnd think to wed it, he is so above me.

I would have thee gone;And yet no further than a wanton's bird,Who lets it hop a little from her hand,Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,And with a silk thread plucks it back again,So loving-jealous of his liberty.

These violent delights have violent ends.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,And call upon my soul within the house.

Bassanio: Do all men kill the things they do not love?Shylock: Hates any man the thing he would not kill?

O mistress mine! where are you roaming?

Out-paramoured the Turk.

If thou and nature can so gently part,The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,Which hurts, and is desir'd.

The raven himself is hoarseThat croaks the fatal entrance of DuncanUnder my battlements. Come, you spiritsThat tend on mortal thoughts! unsex me here,And fill me from the crown to the toe top fullOf direst cruelty; make thick my blood,Stop up the access and passage to remorse,That no compunctious visitings of natureShake my fell purpose, nor keep peace betweenThe effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers.

Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,With what I most enjoy contented least;Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,Haply I think on thee.

He will to his Egyptian dish again.

O! for a horse with wings!

We would, and we would not.

All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee to me.

Except I be by Silvia in the night,There is no music in the nightingale.