And the vile squeaking of the wry-necked fife. -The Merchant of Venice. Act ii. Sc. 5.

And the vile squeaking of the wry-necked fife. -The Merchant of Venice. Act ii. Sc. 5.

Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues We write in water. -King Henry VIII. Act iv. Sc. 2.

Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues We write in water. -King Henry VIII. Act iv. Sc. 2.

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Make deeds ill done! -King John. Act iv. Sc. 2.

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Make deeds ill done! -King John. Act iv. Sc. 2.

In those holy fields Over whose acres walked those blessed feet Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd For our read more

In those holy fields Over whose acres walked those blessed feet Which fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd For our advantage on the bitter cross. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act i. Sc. 1.

The villany you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction. -The read more

The villany you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction. -The Merchant of Venice. Act iii. Sc. 1.

Nothing comes amiss; so money comes withal. -The Taming of the Shrew. Act i. Sc. 2.

Nothing comes amiss; so money comes withal. -The Taming of the Shrew. Act i. Sc. 2.

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, That fools should be so deep-contemplative; And I did laugh sans intermission An read more

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer, That fools should be so deep-contemplative; And I did laugh sans intermission An hour by his dial. -As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 7.

Poor deer, quoth he, thou makest a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more To that which had read more

Poor deer, quoth he, thou makest a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more To that which had too much. -As You Like It. Act ii. 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.