William Shakespeare

There is thy gold--worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murder in this loathsome world,
Than these read more

There is thy gold--worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murder in this loathsome world,
Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none
Farewell. Buy food and get thyself in flesh.

Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss
But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.

Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss
But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.

Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on,—how then? Can honour set read more

Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on,—how then? Can honour set to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? no. What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour; what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no. 'T is insensible, then? yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I 'll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act v. Sc. 1.

What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you
With bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you.

What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you
With bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you.

The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark
When neither is attended; and I think
The read more

The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark
When neither is attended; and I think
The nightingale, if she should sing by day
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many thing by season seasoned are
To their right praise and true perfection!