William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
Murder most foul, as in the best it is,
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
Murder most foul, as in the best it is,
But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
That it should come to this,
But two months dead, nay, not so much, not two,
So read more
That it should come to this,
But two months dead, nay, not so much, not two,
So excellent a king, that was to this
Hyperion to a satyr, so loving to my mother
That he might not beteem the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth,
Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on, and yet within a month--
Let me not think on't; frailty, thy name is woman--
A little month, or ere those shoes were old
With which she followed my poor father's body
Like Niobe, all tears, why she, even she--
O God, a beast that wants discourse of reason
Would have mourned longer--married with my uncle,
My father's brother, but no more like my father
Than I to Hercules.
I knew him tyrannous; and tyrants' fears
Decrease not, but grow faster than the years;
And should read more
I knew him tyrannous; and tyrants' fears
Decrease not, but grow faster than the years;
And should he doubt it, as no doubt he doth,
That I should open to the list'ning air
How many worthy princes' bloods were shed
To keep his bed of blackness unlaid ope,
To lop that doubt, he'll fill this land with arms
And make pretense of wrong that I have done him;
When all, for mine, if I may call offense,
Must feel war's blow, who spares not innocence;
Which love to all, of which thyself art one,
Who now reproved'st me for't--
Thou art a traitor.
Off with his head! Now by Saint Paul I swear
I will not read more
Thou art a traitor.
Off with his head! Now by Saint Paul I swear
I will not dine until I see the same.
It is neither good nor bad, but thinking makes it so.
It is neither good nor bad, but thinking makes it so.
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.
No place indeed should murder sanctuarize;
Revenge should have no bounds.
No place indeed should murder sanctuarize;
Revenge should have no bounds.
Honesty is the best policy. If I lose mine honor, I lose myself.
Honesty is the best policy. If I lose mine honor, I lose myself.
Death my lord,
Their clothes are after such a pagan cut to 't
That sure th' have read more
Death my lord,
Their clothes are after such a pagan cut to 't
That sure th' have worn out Christendom.
There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
