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Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself. -King Henry VIII. Act i. Sc. read more
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself. -King Henry VIII. Act i. Sc. 1.
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun And the free maids that weave their thread with bones Do use read more
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun And the free maids that weave their thread with bones Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age. -Twelfth Night. Act ii. Sc. 4.
My business in this state Made me a looker on here in Vienna. -Measure for Measure. Act v. Sc. 1.
My business in this state Made me a looker on here in Vienna. -Measure for Measure. Act v. Sc. 1.
There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old. -King Henry read more
There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act ii. Sc. 4.
He is come to open The purple testament of bleeding war. -King Richard II. Act iii. Sc. 3.
He is come to open The purple testament of bleeding war. -King Richard II. Act iii. Sc. 3.
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall. -Measure for Measure. Act ii. Sc. 1.
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall. -Measure for Measure. Act ii. Sc. 1.
All that glisters is not gold. -The Merchant of Venice. Act ii. Sc. 7.
All that glisters is not gold. -The Merchant of Venice. Act ii. Sc. 7.
Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act ii. Sc. 4.
Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act ii. Sc. 4.
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here we will sit and let the sounds of music Creep in read more
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here we will sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: There 's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins. Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. -The Merchant of Venice. Act. v. Sc. 1.
