Sketch-blog of an alien-cat-sorcerer.

Special Takes Series

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty’s legacy?
Nature’s bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,
And being frank, she lends to those are free:
Than, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive:
Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
Thy unus’d beauty must be tomb’d with thee,
Which used, lives th’ executor to be.


Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some
mother,
For where is she so fair whose unear’d womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime;
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember’d not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.


FROM fairest creatures we desire increase

FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.


The common curse of mankind, – folly and ignorance

Nature teaches beasts to know their friends


Thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges

For the rain it raineth every day


You pay a great deal too dear for what’s given freely

Out of the jaws of death


These words are razors to my wounded heart

What ‘s gone and what ‘s past help should be past grief


Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind

Everyone can master a grief but he that has it


Men of few words are the best men

The course of true love never did run smooth


Love sought is good, but giv’n unsought is better

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, rounded with a little sleep


I have not slept one wink.

Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them


My salad days, when I was green in judgment.

The game is up.


To mourn a mischief that is past and gone is the next way to draw new mischief on

The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief


‘T’is neither here nor there.

I will wear my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck at


Have more than thou showest, speak less than thou knowest, lend less than thou owest

The worst is not, So long as we can say, ‘This is the worst.’


My love’s more richer than my tongue

Nothing will come of nothing.


How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!

I am a man more sinned against than sinning


Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?

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.


Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under ‘t.

I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself, and falls on the other.


If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me

Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it; he died as one that had been studied in his death to throw away the dearest thing he owed, as ‘t were a careless trifle


All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand

When shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly ‘s done,
When the battle ‘s lost and won


Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

Out, damned spot! out, I say!


Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ the milk of human kindness.

Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red


Fair is foul, and foul is fair

I bear a charmed life