William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
Can it be
That modesty may more betray our sense
Than woman's lightness? Having waste ground enough,
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Can it be
That modesty may more betray our sense
Than woman's lightness? Having waste ground enough,
Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary
And pitch our evils there?
Our revels are now ended. These our actors
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are read more
Our revels are now ended. These our actors
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all of which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Is rounded with a sleep.
There is no vice so simple but assumes
Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
There is no vice so simple but assumes
Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
Love all, trust a few. Do wrong to none.
Love all, trust a few. Do wrong to none.
O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, read more
O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.
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.
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.
He hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book; he hath not eat paper, as it read more
He hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act iv. Sc. 2.
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.
What to ourselves in passion we propose,
The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.
What to ourselves in passion we propose,
The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.
