William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
Who has a book of all that monarchs do,
He's more secure to keep it shut than shown;
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Who has a book of all that monarchs do,
He's more secure to keep it shut than shown;
For vice repeated is like the wand'ring wind,
Blows dust in others' eye, to spread itself;
And yet the end of all is bought thus dear,
The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear
To stop the air would hurt them.
O, who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge read more
O, who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer's heat? O, no! the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse. -King Richard II. Act i. Sc. 3.
On Tuesday last
A falcon, now tow'ring in her pride of place,
Was by a mousing owl read more
On Tuesday last
A falcon, now tow'ring in her pride of place,
Was by a mousing owl hawked at and killed.
O Ceremony, show me but thy worth?
What is thy soul of adoration?
Art thou aught else read more
O Ceremony, show me but thy worth?
What is thy soul of adoration?
Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form,
Creating awe and fear in other men?
If he be not fellow with the best king, thou shalt find the best king of good fellows. -King Henry read more
If he be not fellow with the best king, thou shalt find the best king of good fellows. -King Henry V. Act v. Sc. 2.
One out of suits with fortune. -As You Like It. Act i. Sc. 2.
One out of suits with fortune. -As You Like It. Act i. Sc. 2.
Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender read more
Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory, But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have: And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. -King Henry VIII. Act iii. Sc. 2.
Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain-tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing. -King Henry VIII. read more
Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain-tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing. -King Henry VIII. Act iii. Sc. 1.
His nose was as sharp as a pen, and a' babbled of green fields. -King Henry V. Act ii. Sc. read more
His nose was as sharp as a pen, and a' babbled of green fields. -King Henry V. Act ii. Sc. 3.
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.
