William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
Discomfort guides my tongue
And bids me speak of nothing but despair.
Discomfort guides my tongue
And bids me speak of nothing but despair.
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.
If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor read more
If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. -The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 2.
Chide him for faults, and do it reverently,
When you perceive his blood inclined to mirth,
But, read more
Chide him for faults, and do it reverently,
When you perceive his blood inclined to mirth,
But, being moody, give him time and scope,
Till that his passions, like a whale on ground,
Confound themselves with working.
The attempt and not the deed confounds us.
The attempt and not the deed confounds us.
Tongues I'll hang on every tree
That shall civil sayings show. . . .
Tongues I'll hang on every tree
That shall civil sayings show. . . .
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.
Now the good gods forbid
That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude
Towards her deserved children is enrolled
read more
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.
What is the city but the people?
What is the city but the people?
