William Shakespeare

But that our feasts
In every mess have folly, and the feeders
Digest it with a custom, read more

But that our feasts
In every mess have folly, and the feeders
Digest it with a custom, I should blush
To see you so attired, swoon, I think,
To show myself a glass.

Fare you well, my lord, and believe this of me: there can be no
kernel in this light nut; read more

Fare you well, my lord, and believe this of me: there can be no
kernel in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes.
Trust him not in matter of heavy consequence.

We have scorched the snake, not killed it.
She'll close and be herself, whilst our poor malice
read more

We have scorched the snake, not killed it.
She'll close and be herself, whilst our poor malice
Remains in danger of her former tooth.

Love all, trust a few. Do wrong to none.

Love all, trust a few. Do wrong to none.

Whence is that knocking?
How is't with me, when every noise appals me?

Whence is that knocking?
How is't with me, when every noise appals me?