It’s late and I’m stuck in a hotel room in an unfamiliar place and I’m exhausted and hungry but without anywhere to get food at this hour and just feeling anxious and frustrated that I couldn’t make it home like I had wanted, planned, wished. And now I just feel like putting these little words up here again, since they always seem to remind me of something or give me some meaning. Over the past year they’ve just seemed to accumulate a lot of weight and a lot of facets. Don’t ask me why these seemingly unrelated words relate to my situation; they just do. No matter what’s going on, they always do.

Hard to seem won: but I was won, my lord,
With the first glance that ever—pardon me—
If I confess much, you will play the tyrant.
I love you now; but not, till now, so much
But I might master it: in faith, I lie;
My thoughts were like unbridled children, grown
Too headstrong for their mother. See, we fools!
Why have I blabb’d? who shall be true to us,
When we are so unsecret to ourselves?
But, though I loved you well, I woo’d you not;
And yet, good faith, I wish’d myself a man,
Or that we women had men’s privilege
Of speaking first. Sweet, bid me hold my tongue,
For in this rapture I shall surely speak
The thing I shall repent. See, see, your silence,
Cunning in dumbness, from my weakness draws
My very soul of counsel! stop my mouth.

shitmystudentswrite:

Macbeth couldn’t have loved Lady Macbeth because he was crazy and too busy hallucinating witches and stuff. Also, crazy people can’t do it without going crazy midway through.

OMG DIS BLOG AAHAHAHAHAHA

»>Shit My Students Write«<

O, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem’d my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love: if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reign’d
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain’d,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
      For nothing this wide universe I call,
      Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all

shakespearewithgifs:

ROMEO: Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,
Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

MERCUTIO:

If love be rough with you, be rough with love;
Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.

(submitted by bertiebottbag)

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH YES YES YES DANCE DYING RN

OH MY GOD ALL OF THESE ARE PERFECTION. PERFECTION.