William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
To be once in doubt
Is once to be resolved.
To be once in doubt
Is once to be resolved.
O, this life
Is nobler than attending for a check,
Richer than doing nothing for a robe,
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O, this life
Is nobler than attending for a check,
Richer than doing nothing for a robe,
Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk:
Such pain the cap of him that makes him fine
Yet keeps his book uncrossed.
Of moving accidents by flood and field.
Of moving accidents by flood and field.
Where the bee sucks, there suck I; In a cowslip's bell I lie. -The Tempest. Act v. Sc. 1.
Where the bee sucks, there suck I; In a cowslip's bell I lie. -The Tempest. Act v. Sc. 1.
The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve.
Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.
The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve.
Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.
Now the good gods forbid
That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude
Towards her deserved children is enrolled
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Now the good gods forbid
That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude
Towards her deserved children is enrolled
In Jove's own book, like an unnatural dam
Should now eat up her own!
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
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By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if me my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honor,
I am the most offending soul alive.
There is thy gold--worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murder in this loathsome world,
Than these read more
There is thy gold--worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murder in this loathsome world,
Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none
Farewell. Buy food and get thyself in flesh.
Every night he comes
With musics of all sorts, and songs composed
To her unworthiness. It nothing read more
Every night he comes
With musics of all sorts, and songs composed
To her unworthiness. It nothing steads us
To chide him from our eaves, for he persists
As if his life lay on't.
