But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be;
Within that circle none durst walk but he.

But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be;
Within that circle none durst walk but he.

And men sit down to that nourishment which is called supper. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act i. Sc. 1.

And men sit down to that nourishment which is called supper. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act i. Sc. 1.

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.

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere. -Twelfth Night. Act iii. Sc. 1.

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere. -Twelfth Night. Act iii. Sc. 1.

More matter for a May morning. -Twelfth Night. Act iii. Sc. 4.

More matter for a May morning. -Twelfth Night. Act iii. Sc. 4.

All hell shall stir for this. -King Henry V. Act v. Sc. 1.

All hell shall stir for this. -King Henry V. Act v. 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.

Had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, read more

Had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action. -Coriolanus. Act i. Sc. 3.

In the posteriors of this day, which the rude multitude call the afternoon. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act v. Sc. read more

In the posteriors of this day, which the rude multitude call the afternoon. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act v. Sc. 1.