You May Also Like / View all maxioms
Death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all; all shall die. How a good yoke of bullocks at Stamford read more
Death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all; all shall die. How a good yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair? -King Henry IV. Part II. Act iii. Sc. 2.
The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good. -Measure for Measure. Act iii. Sc. 1.
The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good. -Measure for Measure. Act iii. Sc. 1.
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven. -All 's Well that Ends Well. Act i. read more
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven. -All 's Well that Ends Well. Act i. Sc. 1.
The why is plain as way to parish church. -As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 7.
The why is plain as way to parish church. -As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 7.
Was ever woman in this humour wooed? Was ever woman in this humour won? -King Richard III. Act i. Sc. read more
Was ever woman in this humour wooed? Was ever woman in this humour won? -King Richard III. Act i. Sc. 2.
Delivers in such apt and gracious words That aged ears play truant at his tales, And younger hearings are quite read more
Delivers in such apt and gracious words That aged ears play truant at his tales, And younger hearings are quite ravished; So sweet and voluble is his discourse. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act ii. Sc. 1.
Come not within the measure of my wrath. -The Two Gentleman of Verona. Act v. Sc. 4.
Come not within the measure of my wrath. -The Two Gentleman of Verona. Act v. Sc. 4.
I was now a coward on instinct. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act ii. Sc. 4.
I was now a coward on instinct. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act ii. Sc. 4.
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here we will sit and let the sounds of music Creep in read more
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here we will sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: There 's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins. Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. -The Merchant of Venice. Act. v. Sc. 1.
