William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
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.
Against self-slaughter
There is a prohibition so divine
That cravens my weak hand.
Against self-slaughter
There is a prohibition so divine
That cravens my weak hand.
So study evermore is overshot.
While it doth study to have what it would,
It doth forget read more
So study evermore is overshot.
While it doth study to have what it would,
It doth forget to do the thing it should;
And when it hath the thing it hunteth most,
'Tis won as towns with fire; so won, so lost.
'T is but the fate of place, and the rough brake That virtue must go through. -King Henry VIII. Act read more
'T is but the fate of place, and the rough brake That virtue must go through. -King Henry VIII. Act i. Sc. 2.
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me read more
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. -King Richard III. Act v. Sc. 3.
O, how full of briers is this working-day world! -As You Like It. Act i. Sc. 3.
O, how full of briers is this working-day world! -As You Like It. Act i. Sc. 3.
The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept. -Measure for Measure. Act ii. Sc. 2.
The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept. -Measure for Measure. Act ii. Sc. 2.
These are the forgeries of jealousy;
And never, since the middle summer's spring,
Met we on hill, read more
These are the forgeries of jealousy;
And never, since the middle summer's spring,
Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead,
By paved fountain or by rushy brook,
Or in the beached margent of the sea,
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,
But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.
Like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his read more
Like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his own lie. -The Tempest. Act i. Sc. 2.
