William Shakespeare

That is the way to lay the city flat,
To bring the roof to the foundation,
And read more

That is the way to lay the city flat,
To bring the roof to the foundation,
And bury all, which yet distinctly ranges,
In heaps and piles of ruin.

The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us.

The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us.

I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth,
forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it read more

I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth,
forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily
with my disposition that this goodly frame the earth seems to me
a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look
you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof
fretted with golden fire--why, it appeareth nothing to me but a
foul and pestilent congregation of vapors.

Another lean unwashed artificer
Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur's death.

Another lean unwashed artificer
Cuts off his tale and talks of Arthur's death.

A fool's bolt is soon shot.

A fool's bolt is soon shot.