William Shakespeare

In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,
Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared
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In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,
Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared
A rotten carcass of a butt, not rigged,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively have quit it.

I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I
know most faults.

I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I
know most faults.

O, he's a limb that has but a disease:
Mortal, to cut it off; to cure it, easy.

O, he's a limb that has but a disease:
Mortal, to cut it off; to cure it, easy.

Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.

Nothing in his life became him like the leaving it.

The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious.

The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious.