William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,
Thou robb'st me of a moiety.
If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,
Thou robb'st me of a moiety.
Is Brutus sick, and is it physical
To walk unbraced and suck up the humors
Of the read more
Is Brutus sick, and is it physical
To walk unbraced and suck up the humors
Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick,
And will he steal out of his wholesome bed
To dare the vile contagion of the night,
And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air,
To add unto his sickness?
A very ancient and fish-like smell. -The Tempest. Act ii. Sc. 2.
A very ancient and fish-like smell. -The Tempest. Act ii. Sc. 2.
Who lined himself with hope, Eating the air on promise of supply. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act i. Sc. read more
Who lined himself with hope, Eating the air on promise of supply. -King Henry IV. Part II. Act i. Sc. 2.
How now, foolish rheum! -King John. Act iv. Sc. 1.
How now, foolish rheum! -King John. Act iv. Sc. 1.
You have too much respect upon the world: They lose it that do buy it with much care. -The Merchant read more
You have too much respect upon the world: They lose it that do buy it with much care. -The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 1.
Palsied eld. -Measure for Measure. Act iii. Sc. 1.
Palsied eld. -Measure for Measure. Act iii. Sc. 1.
Every subject's duty is the king's, but every subject's soul is
his own.
Every subject's duty is the king's, but every subject's soul is
his own.
My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind:
So flewed, so sanded, and their heads are hung
read more
My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind:
So flewed, so sanded, and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
Crook-kneed, and dewlapped like Thessalian bulls;
Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells,
Each under each.
Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas
Of wheat, rye, barley, fetches, oats, and pease;
Thy turfy read more
Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas
Of wheat, rye, barley, fetches, oats, and pease;
Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,
And flat meads thatched with stover, them to keep;
Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims,
Which spongy April at thy hest betrims
To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom groves,
Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,
Being lasslorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard;
And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard,
Where thou thyself dost air--the queen o' th' sky,
Whose wat-ry arch and messenger am I,
Bids thee leave these, and with her sovereign grace,
Here on this grass-plot, in this very place,
To come and sport: her peacocks fly amain.
Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.
