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One touch of nature makes the whole world kin. -Troilus and Cressida. Act iii. Sc. 3.
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin. -Troilus and Cressida. Act iii. Sc. 3.
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Make deeds ill done! -King John. Act iv. Sc. 2.
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Make deeds ill done! -King John. Act iv. Sc. 2.
Who lined himself with hope, Eating the air on promise of supply. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act i. Sc. read more
Who lined himself with hope, Eating the air on promise of supply. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act i. Sc. 2.
Our compell'd sins Stand more for number than for accompt. -Measure for Measure. Act ii. Sc. 4.
Our compell'd sins Stand more for number than for accompt. -Measure for Measure. Act ii. Sc. 4.
Rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster. -As You read more
Rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster. -As You Like It. Act v. Sc. 4.
The human mortals. -A Midsummer Night's Dream. Act ii. Sc. 1.
The human mortals. -A Midsummer Night's Dream. Act ii. Sc. 1.
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.
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.
A royal train, believe me. -King Henry VIII. Act iv. Sc. 1.
A royal train, believe me. -King Henry VIII. Act iv. Sc. 1.
