Quotes About Reflection

I am slow of study.

For it so falls outThat what we have we prize not to the worthWhiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost,Why, then we rack the value, then we findThe virtue that possession would not show usWhiles it was ours.

Must I hold a candle to my shames?

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime.

He hath a daily beauty in his life.

Had I but died an hour before this chanceI had liv'd a blessed time; for, from this instant,There's nothing serious in mortality,All is but toys; renown and grace is dead,The wine of life is drawn, and the mere leesIs left this vault to brag of.

Within the book and volume of my brain.

Nothing in his lifeBecame him like the leaving it; he diedAs one that had been studied in his deathTo throw away the dearest thing he ow'd,As 'twere a careless trifle.

Death is a fearful thing.

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;For now hath time made me his numbering clock:My thoughts are minutes.

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.

Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.

There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.

Give thy thoughts no tongue.

By heaven, I do love, and it hath taught me to rime, and to be melancholy.

Nymph, in thy orisonsBe all my sins remember'd.

Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy.

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.

Some of us will smart for it.

If we shadows have offended,Think but this, and all is mended,That you have but slumber'd hereWhile these visions did appear.

If you remember'st not the slightest follyThat ever love did make thee run into,Thou hast not lov'd.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought And with old woes new wail my dear times' waste.

If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces.