Quotes About Expression

Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.

Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

in black ink my love may still shine bright.

Thou mad mustachio purple-hued maltworms!

William Shakespeare

How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?

Rude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.

You taught me language, and my profit on't / Is, I know how to curse

Thou weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath.

I hold my peace, sir? no; No, I will speak as liberal as the north; Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.

I understand a fury in your words But not your words.

The grief that does not speak whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break.

O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the marketplace.

What do you read, my lord? HAMLET: Words, words, words.

The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven; and as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name; such tricks hath strong imagination.

Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins

Women speak two languages - one of which is verbal.

And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name

Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.

Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.

Say she rail; why, I'll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown; I'll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash'd with dew. Say she be mute and will not speak a word; Then I'll commend her volubility, and say she uttereth piercing eloquence.

Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?

If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

Let me play the lion too: I will roar that I will do any man's heart good to hear me. I will roar that I will make the duke say 'Let him roar again, let him roar again.