William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
I pardon him as God shall pardon me.
I pardon him as God shall pardon me.
But, O thou tyrant,
Do not repent these things, for they are heavier
Than all thy woes read more
But, O thou tyrant,
Do not repent these things, for they are heavier
Than all thy woes can stir. Therefore betake thee
To nothing but despair.
Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
read more
Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald me like molten lead.
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine. -The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 3.
You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine. -The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 3.
The quality of mercy is not strain'd, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it read more
The quality of mercy is not strain'd, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
Come, let's have one other gaudy night. Call to me. All my sad captains. Fill our bowls once more. Let's read more
Come, let's have one other gaudy night. Call to me. All my sad captains. Fill our bowls once more. Let's mock the midnight bell.
Oh, I have suffered
With those that I saw suffer!
Oh, I have suffered
With those that I saw suffer!
O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant. -Measure read more
O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant. -Measure for Measure. Act ii. Sc. 2.
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And read more
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost,
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit,
And so he'll die; and rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him.
You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary,
Come hither from the furrow and be merry.
Make holiday: your read more
You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary,
Come hither from the furrow and be merry.
Make holiday: your rye-straw hats put on,
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one
In country footing.
