Figurative Language of Shakespeare

Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, / Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:

What say you, Hermia? be advised fair maid:
To you your father should be as a god;
One that composed your beauties, yea, and one
To whom you are but as a form in wax

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;
A stage where every man must play a part,
And mine a sad one.

Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn

I must hear from thee every day in the hour,
For in a minute there are many days:
O, by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Romeo!

As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods.
They kill us for their sport.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;

Here's the smell of the blood still: all the
perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and
ill together

Breaking his oath and resolution like
A twist of rotten silk,

But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune--
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

Say that she frown, I'll say she looks as clear
As morning roses newly wash'd with dew:

I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed
monster.

But yesterday the word of Caesar might / Have stood against the world; now lies he there.

You seem to me as Dian in her orb,
As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;

You are a thousand times a properer man
Than she a woman.

If music be the food of love, play on;

O, she is fallen
Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again

Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked elipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.