Skye Collacott Williamson
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Skye Collacott Williamson
rated a book really liked it
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(page 196 of 389)
"'and when i really let go, I imagine that you let me take care of you, too'
I don't know whether it is the time in my life to re-reading this, but it's a wonderfully comforting romance novel. Jack an annoyingly attractive maybe a little arrogant taking gentle and sweet care of the parentified Elsie. More reassurance and acknowledgement in his finger than the masquerades of men." — Dec 18, 2024 11:48AM
"'and when i really let go, I imagine that you let me take care of you, too'
I don't know whether it is the time in my life to re-reading this, but it's a wonderfully comforting romance novel. Jack an annoyingly attractive maybe a little arrogant taking gentle and sweet care of the parentified Elsie. More reassurance and acknowledgement in his finger than the masquerades of men." — Dec 18, 2024 11:48AM
“There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat;
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.”
― Julius Caesar
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat;
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.”
― Julius Caesar
“Death Be Not Proud
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.”
― The Complete Poetry and Selected Prose
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.”
― The Complete Poetry and Selected Prose
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