William Shakespeare

My prophecy is but half his journey yet,
For yonder walls, that pertly front your town,
Yon read more

My prophecy is but half his journey yet,
For yonder walls, that pertly front your town,
Yon towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds,
Must kiss their own feet.

'Tis too much proved,--that with devotion's visage,
And pious action, we do sugar o'er
The devil himself.

'Tis too much proved,--that with devotion's visage,
And pious action, we do sugar o'er
The devil himself.

The ides of March are come.

The ides of March are come.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds read more

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So ling lives this, and this gives life to thee.

For 'tis the sport to have the enginer
Hoist with his own petar, and 't shall go hard
read more

For 'tis the sport to have the enginer
Hoist with his own petar, and 't shall go hard
But I will delve one yard below their mines
And blow them at the moon.