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  11  /  15  

When great poets sing,
Into the night new constellations spring,
With music in the air that dulls read more

When great poets sing,
Into the night new constellations spring,
With music in the air that dulls the craft
Of rhetoric. So when Shakespeare sang or laughed
The world with long, sweet Alpine echoes thrilled
Voiceless to scholars' tongues no muse had filled
With melody divine.

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-Gon.

-Gon.

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  4  /  10  

This earth that bears thee dead Bears not alive so stout a gentleman. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act v. read more

This earth that bears thee dead Bears not alive so stout a gentleman. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act v. Sc. 4.

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  12  /  15  

I cannot tell what the dickens his name is. -The Merry Wives of Windsor. Act iii. Sc. 2.

I cannot tell what the dickens his name is. -The Merry Wives of Windsor. Act iii. Sc. 2.

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  10  /  8  

There, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana. -Measure for Measure. Act iii. Sc. 1.

There, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana. -Measure for Measure. Act iii. Sc. 1.

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  8  /  9  

I 'll speak in a monstrous little voice. -A Midsummer Night's Dream. Act i. Sc. 2.

I 'll speak in a monstrous little voice. -A Midsummer Night's Dream. Act i. Sc. 2.

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  9  /  6  

'T is beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on: Lady, you are read more

'T is beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on: Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy. -Twelfth Night. Act i. Sc. 5.

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  6  /  27  

And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, And then from hour to hour we rot and rot; read more

And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, And then from hour to hour we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale. -As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 7.

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Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If read more

Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true. -King John. Act v. Sc. 7.

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