William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
O, how thy worth with manners may I sing
When thou art all the better part of me?
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O, how thy worth with manners may I sing
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring,
And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
When most I wink, then do my eyes best see
When most I wink, then do my eyes best see
Study is like the heaven's glorious sun,
That will not be deep-searched with saucy looks:
Small have read more
Study is like the heaven's glorious sun,
That will not be deep-searched with saucy looks:
Small have continual plodders ever won,
Save base authority from others' books.
No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose
To wage against the emnity o' th' air,
To read more
No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose
To wage against the emnity o' th' air,
To be a comrade with the wolf and owl,
Necessity's sharp pinch.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius,
Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.
Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius,
Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.
Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell
Civil dissension is a viperous worm
That gnaws the read more
Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell
Civil dissension is a viperous worm
That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth.
Tongues I'll hang on every tree
That shall civil sayings show. . . .
Tongues I'll hang on every tree
That shall civil sayings show. . . .
Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes.
Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes.
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here we will sit and let the sounds of music Creep in read more
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here we will sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: There 's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins. Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. -The Merchant of Venice. Act. v. Sc. 1.
