William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
With this there grows
In my most ill-compos'd affection such
A stanchless avarice that, were I King,
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With this there grows
In my most ill-compos'd affection such
A stanchless avarice that, were I King,
I should cut off the nobles for their lands,
Desire his jewels, and this other's house,
And my more-having would be as a sauce
To make me hunger more, that I should forge
Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal,
Destroying them for wealth.
With these shreds
They vented their complainings, which being answered
And a petition granted them, a strange read more
With these shreds
They vented their complainings, which being answered
And a petition granted them, a strange one,
To break the heart of generosity,
And make bold power look pale, they threw their caps
As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon,
Shouting their emulation.
His overthrow heaped happiness upon him;
For then, and not till then, he felt himself,
And found read more
His overthrow heaped happiness upon him;
For then, and not till then, he felt himself,
And found the blessedness of being little.
Think you I bear the shears of destiny?
Have I commandment on the pulse of life?
Think you I bear the shears of destiny?
Have I commandment on the pulse of life?
Cowards die many times before their deaths;The valiant never taste of death but once.
Cowards die many times before their deaths;The valiant never taste of death but once.
Mort de ma vie! all is confounded, all!
Reproach and everlasting shame
Sits mocking in our plumes.
Mort de ma vie! all is confounded, all!
Reproach and everlasting shame
Sits mocking in our plumes.
To be, or not to be--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
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To be, or not to be--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--
No more--and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to.
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!
Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace.
Leave gormandizing.
Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace.
Leave gormandizing.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
