William Shakespeare

Rumor is a pipe
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures,
And of so easy and so plain a read more

Rumor is a pipe
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures,
And of so easy and so plain a stop
That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,
The still-discordant wavering multitude,
Can play upon it.

Foul-spoken coward, that thunder'st with thy tongue,
And with thy weapon nothing dar'st perform.

Foul-spoken coward, that thunder'st with thy tongue,
And with thy weapon nothing dar'st perform.

Take physic, pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou mayst shake the superflux to read more

Take physic, pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou mayst shake the superflux to them
And show the heavens more just.

Who are the violets now
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?

Who are the violets now
That strew the green lap of the new-come spring?

At land indeed
Thou dost o'ercount me of my father's house:
But since the cuckoo builds not read more

At land indeed
Thou dost o'ercount me of my father's house:
But since the cuckoo builds not for himself,
Remain in't as thou mayst.