Let there be gall enough in thy ink; though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter. -Twelfth Night. Act iii. read more

Let there be gall enough in thy ink; though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter. -Twelfth Night. Act iii. Sc. 2.

It would be argument for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever. -King Henry IV. read more

It would be argument for a week, laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act ii. Sc. 2.

He that wants money, means, and content is without three good friends. -As You Like It. Act iii. Sc. 2.

He that wants money, means, and content is without three good friends. -As You Like It. Act iii. Sc. 2.

He hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book; he hath not eat paper, as it read more

He hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act iv. Sc. 2.

From the still-vexed Bermoothes. -The Tempest. Act i. Sc. 2.

From the still-vexed Bermoothes. -The Tempest. Act i. Sc. 2.

Under which king, Bezonian? speak, or die! -King Henry IV. Part II. Act v. Sc. 3.

Under which king, Bezonian? speak, or die! -King Henry IV. Part II. Act v. Sc. 3.

And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse. -King John. Act iv. Sc. read more

And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse. -King John. Act iv. Sc. 2.

I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola. -As You Like It. Act iv. Sc. 1.

I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola. -As You Like It. Act iv. Sc. 1.

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.