William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
The gentleman is not in your books. -Much Ado about Nothing. Act i. Sc. 1.
The gentleman is not in your books. -Much Ado about Nothing. Act i. Sc. 1.
Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at read more
Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes.
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise,
Arise, arise!
No, Antony, take the lot:
But, first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery
Shall have the fame. read more
No, Antony, take the lot:
But, first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery
Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Caesar
Grew faw with feasting there.
Ask God for temp'rance. That's th' appliance only
Which your disease requires.
Ask God for temp'rance. That's th' appliance only
Which your disease requires.
Mislike me not for my complexion, The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun. -The Merchant of Venice. Act ii. Sc. read more
Mislike me not for my complexion, The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun. -The Merchant of Venice. Act ii. Sc. 1.
Who finds the partridge in the puttock's nest
But may imagine how the bird was dead,
Although read more
Who finds the partridge in the puttock's nest
But may imagine how the bird was dead,
Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak?
The silence often of pure innocence persuades when speaking fails.
The silence often of pure innocence persuades when speaking fails.
To show our simple skill,
That is the true beginning of our end.
To show our simple skill,
That is the true beginning of our end.
Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies,
There to dispose this treasure in mine arms
read more
Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies,
There to dispose this treasure in mine arms
And secretly to greet the empress's friends.
(Macbeth:) How does your patient, doctor?
(Doctor:) Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with read more
(Macbeth:) How does your patient, doctor?
(Doctor:) Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies
That keep her from her rest.
(Macbeth:) Cure her of that!
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory of a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of the perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
(Doctor:) Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
(Macbeth:) Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it!
