William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
The birds chaunt melody on every bush,
The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun,
The green read more
The birds chaunt melody on every bush,
The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun,
The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind,
And make a checkered shadow on the ground;
Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit,
And whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds,
Replying shrilly to the well-tuned horns,
As if a double hunt were heard at once,
Let us sit down and mark their yellowing noise;
And after conflict such as was supposed
The wand'ring prince and Dido once enjoyed,
When with a happy storm they were surprised,
And curtained with a counsel-keeping cave,
We may, each wreathed in the other's arms,
Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber,
Whiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious birds
Be unto us as is a nurse's song
Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep.
It will have blood, they say: blood will have blood.
Stones have been known to move and trees to read more
It will have blood, they say: blood will have blood.
Stones have been known to move and trees to speak;
Augures and understood relations have
By maggot-pies and choughs and rooks brought forth
The secret'st man of blood. What is the night?
Simply the thing that I am shall make me live.
Simply the thing that I am shall make me live.
My dear dear lord,
The purest treasure mortal times afford
Is spotless reputation. That away,
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My dear dear lord,
The purest treasure mortal times afford
Is spotless reputation. That away,
Man are but gilded loam or painted clay.
As long as I have a want, I have a reason for living.
Satisfaction is death.
As long as I have a want, I have a reason for living.
Satisfaction is death.
Great Britain and the United States are nations separated by a
common language.
Great Britain and the United States are nations separated by a
common language.
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.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man that function
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My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man that function
Is smothered in surmise and nothing is
But what is not.
If all the year were playing holidays,
To sport would be as tedious as to work;
And read more
If all the year were playing holidays,
To sport would be as tedious as to work;
And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.
And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.
And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.
