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The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for read more
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted. -The Merchant of Venice. Act. v. Sc. 1.
For my voice, I have lost it with halloing and singing of anthems. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act i. read more
For my voice, I have lost it with halloing and singing of anthems. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act i. Sc. 2.
Every one can master a grief but he that has it. -Much Ado about Nothing. Act iii. Sc. 2.
Every one can master a grief but he that has it. -Much Ado about Nothing. Act iii. Sc. 2.
The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest. -The Merchant of Venice. Act iii. Sc. 2.
The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest. -The Merchant of Venice. Act iii. 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.
I am all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too. -Twelfth Night. Act ii. Sc. 4.
I am all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too. -Twelfth Night. Act ii. Sc. 4.
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction and to rot; This sensible read more
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendent world. -Measure for Measure. Act iii. Sc. 1.
Put thyself into the trick of singularity. -Twelfth Night. Act iii. Sc. 4.
Put thyself into the trick of singularity. -Twelfth Night. Act iii. Sc. 4.
The sense of death is most in apprehension; And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds read more
The sense of death is most in apprehension; And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies. -Measure for Measure. Act iii. Sc. 1.
