Quotes About Illusion

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!

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.

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

A king of shreds and patches.

The little foolery that wise men have makes a great show.

In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.

He that is robb'd, not wanting what is stol'n,Let him not know 't and he's not robb'd at all.

But, soft; behold! lo, where it comes again! I'll cross it, though it blast me.—Stay, illusion! If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, Speak to me...

This is the very false gallop of verses.

William Shakespeare

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

And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,And captive good attending captain ill.

The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,And these are of them.

His face is the worst thing about him.

O! then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you!…She is the fairies' midwife, and she comesIn shape no bigger than an agate-stoneOn the forefinger of an alderman,Drawn with a team of little atomiesAthwart men's noses as they lie asleep.

All that glitters is not gold.

Hamlet Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel Polonius By the mass, and 'tis like a camel, indeed. Hamlet Methinks it is like a weasel. Polonius It is backed like a weasel. Hamlet Or like a whale Polonius Very like a whale.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying Nothing.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

There are no facts anymore, kiddo. only good or bad fiction.

I don't want people to know me. I want them to believe my version.

Poetry and consumption are the most flattering of diseases.