Quotes About Change

Refrain tonight;And that shall lend a kind of easinessTo the next abstinence: the next more easy;For use almost can change the stamp of nature.

He makes a July's day short as December.

Now is the winter of our discontentMade glorious summer by this sun of York.

How like a winter hath my absence been.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

We see which way the stream of time doth runAnd are enforc'd from our most quiet sphereBy the rough torrent of occasion.

True is it that we have seen better days.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defacedThe rich proud cost of outworn buried age,When sometime lofty towers I see down-rasedAnd brass eternal slave to mortal rage;When I have seen the hungry ocean gainAdvantage on the kingdom of the shore,And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main,Increasing store with loss and loss with store.

My nature is subdu'dTo what it works in, like the dyer's hand.

Sits the wind in that corner?

The chameleon's dish: I eat the air, promisecrammed; you cannot feed capons so.

In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.

I have liv'd long enough: my way of lifeIs fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf;And that which should accompany old age,As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,I must not look to have; but, in their stead,Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath,Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.

That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

O! you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy; I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died.

Our new heraldry is hands not hearts.

It makes us, or it mars us.

We have seen better days.

There's no time for a man to recover his hair that grows bald by nature.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away...

This weak piping time of peace.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end.

The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.

The swift years slip and slide adown the steep; The slow years pass; neither will come again.