“My men like satyrs grazing on the lawns, / Shall with their goat-feet dance an antic hay.”

I count religion but a childish toy, and hold there is no sin but ignorance.

Our swords shall play the orators for us.

Love is not full of pity (as men say) But deaf and cruel, where he means to pray.

Excess of wealth is cause of covetousness.

Time doth run with calm and silent foot, Shortening my days and thread of vital life.

Lone women, like to empty houses, perish.

I’m armed with more than complete steel, – The justice of my quarrel.

Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast. What shall I do to shun the snares of death?

Virginity, albeit some highly prize it, Compared with marriage, had you tried them both, Differs as much as wine and water doth.

It lies not in our power to love or hate, for will in us is overruled by fate.

If we say that we have no sin, We deceive ourselves, and there’s no truth in us. Why then belike we must sin, And so consequently die. Ay, we must die an everlasting death.

What are kings, when regiment is gone, but perfect shadows in a sunshine day?

Make me immortal with a kiss.

O, thou art fairer than the evening air clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.

Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, And burned is Apollo’s laurel bough, That sometime grew within this learned man. Faustus is gone.

Goodness is beauty in the best estate.

I think a lot about when times were simpler, when I was still dancing and living with my parents. I really miss living at home sometimes. I get really sad.

The body is your instrument in dance, but your art is outside that creature, the body.

You don’t ask what a dance means. You enjoy it. You don’t ask what the world means. You enjoy it. You don’t ask what you mean. You enjoy it.

Churches are good for prayer, but so are garages and cars and mountains and showers and dance floors.

Every dance is a kind of fever chart, a graph of the heart.

All we really want to do is dance.

Dancing is a very living art. It is essentially of the moment, although a very old art. A dancer’s art is lived while he is dancing. Nothing is left of his art except the pictures and the memories–when his dancing days are over.

When in doubt dance it out.