And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as read more

And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings. -King Richard II. Act iii. Sc. 2.

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me read more

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. -King Richard III. Act v. Sc. 3.

I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus, The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, With open read more

I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus, The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, With open mouth swallowing a tailor's news. -King John. Act iv. Sc. 2.

O, what a world of vile ill-favour'd faults Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year! -The Merry Wives of read more

O, what a world of vile ill-favour'd faults Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year! -The Merry Wives of Windsor. Act iii. Sc. 4.

As for a camel To thread the postern of a small needle's eye. -King Richard II. Act v. Sc. 5.

As for a camel To thread the postern of a small needle's eye. -King Richard II. Act v. Sc. 5.

I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true. -The Winter's Tale. Act read more

I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true. -The Winter's Tale. Act iv. Sc. 4.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, read more

Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. -The Tempest. Act iv. Sc. 1.

I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad. -As You Like It. read more

I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad. -As You Like It. Act iv. Sc. 1.

The sense of death is most in apprehension; And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds 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. -Measure for Measure. Act iii. Sc. 1.