Thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges. -Twelfth Night. Act v. Sc. 1.

Thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges. -Twelfth Night. Act v. Sc. 1.

Renowned Spenser, lie a thought more nigh
To learned Chaucer, and rare Beaumont lie
A little nearer read more

Renowned Spenser, lie a thought more nigh
To learned Chaucer, and rare Beaumont lie
A little nearer Spenser, to make room
For Shakespeare in your threefold, fourfold tomb.

Tester I 'll have in pouch, when thou shalt lack, Base Phrygian Turk! -The Merry Wives of Windsor. Act i. read more

Tester I 'll have in pouch, when thou shalt lack, Base Phrygian Turk! -The Merry Wives of Windsor. Act i. Sc. 3.

Fish not, with this melancholy bait, For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. -The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 1.

Fish not, with this melancholy bait, For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. -The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 1.

Turn him to any cause of policy, The Gordian knot of it he will unloose, Familiar as his garter: that read more

Turn him to any cause of policy, The Gordian knot of it he will unloose, Familiar as his garter: that when he speaks, The air, a chartered libertine, is still. -King Henry V. Act i. Sc. 1.

But man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he 's most assured, His glassy read more

But man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he 's most assured, His glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As make the angels weep. -Measure for Measure. Act ii. Sc. 2.

They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act v. Sc. read more

They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act v. Sc. 1.

O heaven! were man But constant, he were perfect. -The Two Gentleman of Verona. Act v. Sc. 4.

O heaven! were man But constant, he were perfect. -The Two Gentleman of Verona. Act v. Sc. 4.

If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, read more

If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again! it had a dying fall: O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour! -Twelfth Night. Act i. Sc. 1.