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Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York, And all the clouds that read more
Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York, And all the clouds that loured upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths, Our bruised arms hung up for monuments, Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them,— Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun. -King Richard III. Act i. Sc. 1.
There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distil it out. -King Henry V. Act iv. read more
There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distil it out. -King Henry V. Act iv. Sc. 1.
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down. -King Richard III. Act iii. read more
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down. -King Richard III. Act iii. Sc. 4.
A merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal. -Love's Labour 's Lost. read more
A merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act ii. Sc. 1.
And thus I clothe my naked villany With old odd ends stolen out of holy writ, And seem a saint read more
And thus I clothe my naked villany With old odd ends stolen out of holy writ, And seem a saint when most I play the devil. -King Richard III. Act i. Sc. 3.
Patch grief with proverbs. -Much Ado about Nothing. Act v. Sc. 1.
Patch grief with proverbs. -Much Ado about Nothing. Act v. Sc. 1.
He hath indeed better bettered expectation. -Much Ado about Nothing. Act i. Sc. 1.
He hath indeed better bettered expectation. -Much Ado about Nothing. Act i. Sc. 1.
Now you who rhyme, and I who rhyme,
Have not we sworn it, many a time,
That read more
Now you who rhyme, and I who rhyme,
Have not we sworn it, many a time,
That we no more our verse would scrawl,
For Shakespeare he had said it all!
