This is very midsummer madness. -Twelfth Night. Act iii. Sc. 4.

This is very midsummer madness. -Twelfth Night. Act iii. Sc. 4.

And if it please you, so; if not, why, so. -The Two Gentleman of Verona. Act ii. Sc. 1.

And if it please you, so; if not, why, so. -The Two Gentleman of Verona. Act ii. Sc. 1.

And then he drew a dial from his poke, And looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, It read more

And then he drew a dial from his poke, And looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, It is ten o'clock: Thus we may see, quoth he, how the world wags. -As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 7.

If we wish to know the force of human genius we should read
Shakespeare. If we wish to see read more

If we wish to know the force of human genius we should read
Shakespeare. If we wish to see the insignificance of human
learning we may study his commentators.

These blessed candles of the night. -The Merchant of Venice. Act. v. Sc. 1.

These blessed candles of the night. -The Merchant of Venice. Act. v. Sc. 1.

My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour. -Twelfth Night. Act ii. Sc. 3.

My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that colour. -Twelfth Night. Act ii. Sc. 3.

At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth; But like of each read more

At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth; But like of each thing that in season grows. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act i. Sc. 1.

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.

For the rain it raineth every day. -Twelfth Night. Act v. Sc. 1.

For the rain it raineth every day. -Twelfth Night. Act v. Sc. 1.