O, who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge read more

O, who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer's heat? O, no! the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse. -King Richard II. Act i. Sc. 3.

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun And the free maids that weave their thread with bones Do use read more

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun And the free maids that weave their thread with bones Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age. -Twelfth Night. Act ii. Sc. 4.

We are ready to try our fortunes To the last man. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act iv. Sc. 2.

We are ready to try our fortunes To the last man. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act iv. Sc. 2.

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.

Others abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask--Thou smilest and art still,
Out-topping knowledge.

Others abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask--Thou smilest and art still,
Out-topping knowledge.

What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight? -King Henry IV. Part I. Act ii. Sc. 4.

What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight? -King Henry IV. Part I. Act ii. Sc. 4.

There, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana. -Measure for Measure. Act iii. Sc. 1.

There, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana. -Measure for Measure. Act iii. Sc. 1.

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York, And all the clouds that read more

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York, And all the clouds that loured upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths, Our bruised arms hung up for monuments, Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them,— Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun. -King Richard III. Act i. Sc. 1.

Sits the wind in that corner? -Much Ado about Nothing. Act ii. Sc. 3.

Sits the wind in that corner? -Much Ado about Nothing. Act ii. Sc. 3.