William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind:
So flewed, so sanded, and their heads are hung
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My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind:
So flewed, so sanded, and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
Crook-kneed, and dewlapped like Thessalian bulls;
Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells,
Each under each.
Friends, Romans countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
Friends, Romans countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
I thought upon one pair of English legs Did march three Frenchmen. -King Henry V. Act iii. Sc. 6.
I thought upon one pair of English legs Did march three Frenchmen. -King Henry V. Act iii. Sc. 6.
Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying! I grant you I was down and out of breath; and read more
Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying! I grant you I was down and out of breath; and so was he. But we rose both at an instant, and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act v. Sc. 4.
I would 't were bedtime, Hal, and all well. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act v. Sc. 1.
I would 't were bedtime, Hal, and all well. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act v. Sc. 1.
And if his name be George, I 'll call him Peter; For new-made honour doth forget men's names. -King John. read more
And if his name be George, I 'll call him Peter; For new-made honour doth forget men's names. -King John. Act i. Sc. 1.
From the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth. -Much Ado about Nothing. read more
From the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth. -Much Ado about Nothing. Act iii. Sc. 2.
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, The marshal's truncheon, nor the read more
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs, Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, Become them with one half so good a grace As mercy does. -Measure for Measure. Act ii. Sc. 2.
Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas
Of wheat, rye, barley, fetches, oats, and pease;
Thy turfy read more
Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas
Of wheat, rye, barley, fetches, oats, and pease;
Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,
And flat meads thatched with stover, them to keep;
Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims,
Which spongy April at thy hest betrims
To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom groves,
Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,
Being lasslorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard;
And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard,
Where thou thyself dost air--the queen o' th' sky,
Whose wat-ry arch and messenger am I,
Bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign grace,
Here on this grass-plot, in this very place,
To come and sport: her peacocks fly amain.
Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.
Condemned into everlasting redemption. -Much Ado about Nothing. Act iv. Sc. 2.
Condemned into everlasting redemption. -Much Ado about Nothing. Act iv. Sc. 2.
