The stream of Time, which is continually washing the dissoluble
fabrics of other poets, passes without injury by the read more

The stream of Time, which is continually washing the dissoluble
fabrics of other poets, passes without injury by the adamant of
Shakespeare.

The mirror of all courtesy. -King Henry VIII. Act ii. Sc. 1.

The mirror of all courtesy. -King Henry VIII. Act ii. Sc. 1.

He that wants money, means, and content is without three good friends. -As You Like It. Act iii. Sc. 2.

He that wants money, means, and content is without three good friends. -As You Like It. Act iii. Sc. 2.

The young gentleman, according to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning, read more

The young gentleman, according to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning, is indeed deceased; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven. -The Merchant of Venice. Act ii. Sc. 2.

And thereby hangs a tale. -The Taming of the Shrew. Act iv. Sc. 1.

And thereby hangs a tale. -The Taming of the Shrew. Act iv. Sc. 1.

If I say that Shakespeare is the greatest of intellects, I have
said all concerning him. But there is read more

If I say that Shakespeare is the greatest of intellects, I have
said all concerning him. But there is more in Shakespeare's
intellect than we have yet seen. It is what I call an
unconscious intellect; there is more virtue in it that he himself
is aware of.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction and to rot; This sensible read more

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendent world. -Measure for Measure. Act iii. Sc. 1.

Now you who rhyme, and I who rhyme,
Have not we sworn it, many a time,
That read more

Now you who rhyme, and I who rhyme,
Have not we sworn it, many a time,
That we no more our verse would scrawl,
For Shakespeare he had said it all!

Few of the university pen plaies well, they smell too much of
that writer Ovid and that writer Metamorphosis read more

Few of the university pen plaies well, they smell too much of
that writer Ovid and that writer Metamorphosis and talk too much
of Prosperpina and Jupiter. Why, here's our fellow Shakespeare
puts them all down. Aye, and Ben Jonson too. O that B.J. is a
pestilent fellow, he brought up Horace giving poets a pill, but
our fellow, Shakespeare, hath given him a purge that made him
beray his credit.