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Base is the slave that pays. -King Henry V. Act ii. Sc. 1.
Base is the slave that pays. -King Henry V. Act ii. Sc. 1.
He will give the devil his due. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act i. Sc. 2.
He will give the devil his due. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act i. Sc. 2.
A plague of all cowards, I say. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act ii. Sc. 4.
A plague of all cowards, I say. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act ii. Sc. 4.
An you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you. -Twelfth read more
An you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you. -Twelfth Night. Act ii. Sc. 5.
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.
One out of suits with fortune. -As You Like It. Act i. Sc. 2.
One out of suits with fortune. -As You Like It. Act i. Sc. 2.
O Proserpina, For the flowers now, that frighted thou let'st fall From Dis's waggon! daffodils, That come before the swallow read more
O Proserpina, For the flowers now, that frighted thou let'st fall From Dis's waggon! daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phœbus in his strength,—a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one. -The Winter's Tale. Act iv. Sc. 4.
Mellifluous Shakespeare, whose enchanting Quill
Commandeth Mirth or Passion, was but Will.
Mellifluous Shakespeare, whose enchanting Quill
Commandeth Mirth or Passion, was but Will.
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here we will sit and let the sounds of music Creep in read more
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here we will sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: There 's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins. Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. -The Merchant of Venice. Act. v. Sc. 1.
