William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
My dear dear lord,
The purest treasure mortal times afford
Is spotless reputation. That away,
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My dear dear lord,
The purest treasure mortal times afford
Is spotless reputation. That away,
Man are but gilded loam or painted clay.
When he shall die Take him and cut him in little stars And he will make the face of heaven read more
When he shall die Take him and cut him in little stars And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.
For 'tis the sport to have the enginer
Hoist with his own petar, and 't shall go hard
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For 'tis the sport to have the enginer
Hoist with his own petar, and 't shall go hard
But I will delve one yard below their mines
And blow them at the moon.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man that function
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My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,
Shakes so my single state of man that function
Is smothered in surmise and nothing is
But what is not.
Nobly he yokes
A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh
Was that it was for read more
Nobly he yokes
A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh
Was that it was for not being such a smile;
The smile mocking the sigh that it would fly
From so divine a temple to commix
With winds that sailors rail at.
Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,
Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light.
Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies,
Which, whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
They were all like one another as halfpence are, every one fault
seeming monstrous till his fellow-fault came to read more
They were all like one another as halfpence are, every one fault
seeming monstrous till his fellow-fault came to match it.
The birds chaunt melody on every bush,
The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun,
The green read more
The birds chaunt melody on every bush,
The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun,
The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind,
And make a checkered shadow on the ground;
Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit,
And whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds,
Replying shrilly to the well-tuned horns,
As if a double hunt were heard at once,
Let us sit down and mark their yellowing noise;
And after conflict such as was supposed
The wand'ring prince and Dido once enjoyed,
When with a happy storm they were surprised,
And curtained with a counsel-keeping cave,
We may, each wreathed in the other's arms,
Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber,
Whiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious birds
Be unto us as is a nurse's song
Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep.
Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity
(So it be new, there's no respect how vile)
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Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity
(So it be new, there's no respect how vile)
That is not quickly buzzed into his ears?
