William Shakespeare ( 10 of 368 )
Foul-spoken coward, that thunder'st with thy tongue,
And with thy weapon nothing dar'st perform.
Foul-spoken coward, that thunder'st with thy tongue,
And with thy weapon nothing dar'st perform.
How poor are they that have not patience!
What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
How poor are they that have not patience!
What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
What's gone, and what's past help,
Should be past grieve.
What's gone, and what's past help,
Should be past grieve.
So may the outward shows be least themselves;
The world is still deceived with ornament.
So may the outward shows be least themselves;
The world is still deceived with ornament.
A fool's bolt is soon shot.
A fool's bolt is soon shot.
Lay her in the earth,
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring.
Lay her in the earth,
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May violets spring.
Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
'Tis just the fashion. Wherefore do you look
Upon that read more
Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
'Tis just the fashion. Wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?
What our contempts do often hurl from us,
We wish it ours again.
What our contempts do often hurl from us,
We wish it ours again.
And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,
Making the hard way sweet and delectable.
And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,
Making the hard way sweet and delectable.
Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man
Still to remember wrongs?
Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man
Still to remember wrongs?
