William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
(Cloten:) Thou villain base,
Know'st me not by my clothes?
(Guiderius:) No, nor thy tailor, rascal,
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(Cloten:) Thou villain base,
Know'st me not by my clothes?
(Guiderius:) No, nor thy tailor, rascal,
Who is thy grandfather. He made those clothes,
Which, as it seems, make thee.
The pretty and sweet manner of it forced
Those waters from me which I would have stopped;
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The pretty and sweet manner of it forced
Those waters from me which I would have stopped;
But I had not so much of man in me,
And all my mother came into mine eyes
And gave me up to tears.
Be it not in thy care. Go,
I charge thee, invite them all; let in the tide
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Be it not in thy care. Go,
I charge thee, invite them all; let in the tide
Of knaves once more; my cook and I'll provide.
I knew him tyrannous; and tyrants' fears
Decrease not, but grow faster than the years;
And should read more
I knew him tyrannous; and tyrants' fears
Decrease not, but grow faster than the years;
And should he doubt it, as no doubt he doth,
That I should open to the list'ning air
How many worthy princes' bloods were shed
To keep his bed of blackness unlaid ope,
To lop that doubt, he'll fill this land with arms
And make pretense of wrong that I have done him;
When all, for mine, if I may call offense,
Must feel war's blow, who spares not innocence;
Which love to all, of which thyself art one,
Who now reproved'st me for't--
Did ever raven sing so like a lark
That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise?
Did ever raven sing so like a lark
That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise?
Take that life, beseech you,
Which I so often owe; but your ring first,
And here the read more
Take that life, beseech you,
Which I so often owe; but your ring first,
And here the bracelet of the truest princess
That ever swore her faith.
Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.
Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.
The miserable have no other medicine But only hope.
The miserable have no other medicine But only hope.
For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things
The deepest loathing to the stomach brings,
Or as read more
For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things
The deepest loathing to the stomach brings,
Or as the heresies that men do leave
Are hated most of those they did deceive,
So thou, my surfeit and my heresy,
Of all be hated, but the most of me!
What fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide
What fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide
