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Let us make an honourable retreat. -As You Like It. Act iii. Sc. 2.
Let us make an honourable retreat. -As You Like It. Act iii. Sc. 2.
Service is no heritage. -All 's Well that Ends Well. Act i. Sc. 3.
Service is no heritage. -All 's Well that Ends Well. Act i. Sc. 3.
To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much. -King Henry read more
To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act iii. Sc. 2.
Superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. -The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 2.
Superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. -The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 2.
O, what a world of vile ill-favour'd faults Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year! -The Merry Wives of read more
O, what a world of vile ill-favour'd faults Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year! -The Merry Wives of Windsor. Act iii. Sc. 4.
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down. -King Richard III. Act iii. read more
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down. -King Richard III. Act iii. Sc. 4.
Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm off from an anointed king. -King Richard read more
Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm off from an anointed king. -King Richard II. Act iii. Sc. 2.
No more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me! -King Henry IV. Part I. Act ii. Sc. 4.
No more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me! -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.
