106.

Through Athens I am thought as fair as she.

But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so.
He will not know what all but he do know.
And as he errs, doting on Hermia’s eyes,
So I, admiring of his qualities.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. 

~Helena

Helena

A Midsummer Night's Dream

Jenny Joslin

105.

"There is a willow grows aslant a brook, 

That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; 

There with fantastic garlands did she come 

Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples 

That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, 

But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: 

There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds 

Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; 

When down her weedy trophies and herself 

Fell in the weeping brook. 

Her clothes spread wide; 

And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up: 

Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes; 

As one incapable of her own distress, 

Or like a creature native and indued 

Unto that element: but long it could not be 

Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, 

Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay 

To muddy death."

~ Gertude

Ophelia

Hamlet

Ruthie Fish

99.

Good my lord, will you see the players well bestowed? Do you hear, let them be well used, for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time. After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live. 

~ Hamlet 

Hamlet

Hamlet

Andres Sosa 

21.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, 
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. 

 Macbeth

16.

     I have of late--but  wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

Hamlet