He was ever precise in promise-keeping. -Measure for Measure. Act i. Sc. 2.

He was ever precise in promise-keeping. -Measure for Measure. Act i. Sc. 2.

The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time. -All 's Well that Ends Well. Act v. Sc. 3.

The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time. -All 's Well that Ends Well. Act v. Sc. 3.

They say miracles are past. -All 's Well that Ends Well. Act ii. Sc. 3.

They say miracles are past. -All 's Well that Ends Well. Act ii. Sc. 3.

Let 's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs. -King Richard II. Act iii. Sc. 2.

Let 's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs. -King Richard II. Act iii. Sc. 2.

A very ancient and fish-like smell. -The Tempest. Act ii. Sc. 2.

A very ancient and fish-like smell. -The Tempest. Act ii. Sc. 2.

His cares are now all ended. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act v. Sc. 2.

His cares are now all ended. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act v. Sc. 2.

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender read more

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have: And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. -King Henry VIII. Act iii. Sc. 2.

I'll moider da bum.

I'll moider da bum.

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.