William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
It is neither good nor bad, but thinking makes it so.
It is neither good nor bad, but thinking makes it so.
You are an alchemist; make gold of that.
You are an alchemist; make gold of that.
Women may fall when there's no strength in men.
Women may fall when there's no strength in men.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.
For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things
The deepest loathing to the stomach brings,
Or as read more
For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things
The deepest loathing to the stomach brings,
Or as the heresies that men do leave
Are hated most of those they did deceive,
So thou, my surfeit and my heresy,
Of all be hated, but the most of me!
The pretty and sweet manner of it forced
Those waters from me which I would have stopped;
read more
The pretty and sweet manner of it forced
Those waters from me which I would have stopped;
But I had not so much of man in me,
And all my mother came into mine eyes
And gave me up to tears.
What fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide
What fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide
When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again.
When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again.
I bought an unction of a mountebank,
So mortal that, but dip a knife in it,
Where read more
I bought an unction of a mountebank,
So mortal that, but dip a knife in it,
Where it draws blood so cataplasm so rare,
Collected from all simples that have virtue
Under the moon, can save the thing from death
That is but scratched withal. I'll touch my point
With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly,
It may be death.
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite
jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne read more
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite
jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a
thousand times. And now how abhorred in my imagination it is!
