William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
Gentle my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks;
Be bright and jovial among your guests to-night.
Gentle my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks;
Be bright and jovial among your guests to-night.
Lawless are they that make their wills their law.
Lawless are they that make their wills their law.
Meagre were his looks,
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones;
And in his needy shop read more
Meagre were his looks,
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones;
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stuffed, and other skins
Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of boxes,
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses
Were thinly scattered, to make up a show.
I have shot mine arrow o'er the house
And hurt my brother.
I have shot mine arrow o'er the house
And hurt my brother.
Honesty is the best policy. If I lose mine honor, I lose myself.
Honesty is the best policy. If I lose mine honor, I lose myself.
A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. -The Winter's Tale. Act iv. Sc. 3.
A snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. -The Winter's Tale. Act iv. Sc. 3.
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--
I bought an unction of a mountebank,
So mortal that, but dip a knife in it,
Where read more
I bought an unction of a mountebank,
So mortal that, but dip a knife in it,
Where it draws blood so cataplasm so rare,
Collected from all simples that have virtue
Under the moon, can save the thing from death
That is but scratched withal. I'll touch my point
With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly,
It may be death.
There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite
jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne read more
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite
jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a
thousand times. And now how abhorred in my imagination it is!
