From women's eyes this doctrine I derive:They are the ground, the books, the academes, From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire.

Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye.

They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.

Come on then, I will swear to study soTo know the thing I am forbid to know- Berowne

To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be, it is impossible: Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

Never durst a poet touch a pen to writeUntil his ink was tempered with love's sighs.

BEROWNE: What time o' day?ROSALINE: The hour that fools should ask.

And in the end, she left a scarand I knew that washow she wanted tobe remembered.She wanted to leaveher mark in theworldwithout gettingher heart tooattached to it.

The soul of this man is his clothes.

Art and accident are one.

Even when the faith goes away, there's that space where you crave something bigger than yourself. For me, that's kind of where art came in, after that.

The present contains nothing more than the past, and what is found in the effect was already in the cause.

I'm weird; I have a very strange emotional memory. I really somehow hold on to even passing moments with people.

The understanding of some men is clear, that of others brilliant. The former illumines its surroundings; the latter obscures them.

I feel about 18, but my mind is much more mature now, so it's a perfect combination.

All the spring may be hidden in the single bud, and the low ground nest of the lark may hold the joy that is to herald the feet of many rose-red dawns.

Death: "THERE ARE BETTER THINGS IN THE WORLD THAN ALCOHOL, ALBERT." Albert: "Oh, yes, sir. But alcohol sort of compensates for not getting them.