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An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye: Give him read more
An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye: Give him a little earth for charity! -King Henry VIII. Act iv. Sc. 2.
When daisies pied and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with read more
When daisies pied and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act v. Sc. 2.
Like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his read more
Like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his own lie. -The Tempest. Act i. Sc. 2.
She is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand read more
She is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. -The Two Gentleman of Verona. Act ii. Sc. 4.
These most brisk and giddy-paced times. -Twelfth Night. Act ii. Sc. 4.
These most brisk and giddy-paced times. -Twelfth Night. Act ii. Sc. 4.
He hath eaten me out of house and home. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act ii. Sc. 1.
He hath eaten me out of house and home. -King Henry IV. Part II. 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.
O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention! -King Henry V. Prologue.
O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention! -King Henry V. Prologue.
Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on,—how then? Can honour set read more
Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on,—how then? Can honour set to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? no. What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour; what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no. 'T is insensible, then? yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I 'll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act v. Sc. 1.
