William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
Mine eyes
Were not in fault, for she was beautiful;
Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor read more
Mine eyes
Were not in fault, for she was beautiful;
Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart,
That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious
To have mistrusted her.
These signs have marked me extraordinary,
And all the courses of my life do show
I am read more
These signs have marked me extraordinary,
And all the courses of my life do show
I am not in the roll of common men.
If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be
thou as chaste as ice, as read more
If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be
thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape
calumny.
Read o'er this
And after, this, and then to breakfast with
What appetite you have.
Read o'er this
And after, this, and then to breakfast with
What appetite you have.
Out of their saddles into the dirt--and thereby hangs a tale.
Out of their saddles into the dirt--and thereby hangs a tale.
This is very midsummer madness. -Twelfth Night. Act iii. Sc. 4.
This is very midsummer madness. -Twelfth Night. Act iii. Sc. 4.
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for read more
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted. -The Merchant of Venice. Act. v. Sc. 1.
Ay, gentle Thurio, for you know that love
Wilt creep in service where it cannot go.
Ay, gentle Thurio, for you know that love
Wilt creep in service where it cannot go.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact.
One sees more devils than read more
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact.
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;
That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt.
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Tempt not a desperate man.
Tempt not a desperate man.
