William Shakespeare

Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing.
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
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Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing.
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him
And makes me poor indeed.

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite
jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne read more

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite
jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a
thousand times. And now how abhorred in my imagination it is!

Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom. read more

Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom. -The Tempest. Act i. Sc. 2.

He hath a tear for pity, and a hand Open as day for melting charity. -King Henry IV. Part II. read more

He hath a tear for pity, and a hand Open as day for melting charity. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act iv. Sc. 4.

The sense of death is most in apprehension,
And the poor beetle that we tread upon
In read more

The sense of death is most in apprehension,
And the poor beetle that we tread upon
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great
As when a giant dies.