William Shakespeare Sick Quotations

Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.

Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low.

They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.

Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!. . . This love feel I.

For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.