William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
Lie thou there; for here comes the trout that must be caught with
tickling.
Lie thou there; for here comes the trout that must be caught with
tickling.
You have seen
Sunshine and rain at once--her smiles and tears
Were like, a better way: those read more
You have seen
Sunshine and rain at once--her smiles and tears
Were like, a better way: those happy smilets
That played on her ripe lip seemed not to know
What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence
As pearls from diamonds dropped.
A name unmusical to the Volscians' ears, And harsh in sound to thine. -Coriolanus. Act iv. Sc. 5.
A name unmusical to the Volscians' ears, And harsh in sound to thine. -Coriolanus. Act iv. Sc. 5.
They are as sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing. -The Merchant of Venice. Act read more
They are as sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing. -The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 2.
Oft expectation fails and most oft there Where most it promises, and oft it hits Where hope is coldest and read more
Oft expectation fails and most oft there Where most it promises, and oft it hits Where hope is coldest and despair most fits.
I will make an end of my dinner--there's pippins and seese to
come.
I will make an end of my dinner--there's pippins and seese to
come.
Question your grace the late ambassadors,
With what great state he heard their embassy,
How well supplied read more
Question your grace the late ambassadors,
With what great state he heard their embassy,
How well supplied with noble counsellors,
How modest in exception, and withal
How terrible in constant resolution,
And you shall find his vanities forespent
Were but the outside of the Roman Brutus,
Covering discretion with a coat of folly;
As gardeners do with ordure hide those roots
That shall first spring and be most delicate.
I will play the swan,
And die in music.
I will play the swan,
And die in music.
'T is beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on: Lady, you are read more
'T is beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on: Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy. -Twelfth Night. Act i. Sc. 5.
Thou said'st--O, it comes o'er my memory
As doth the raven o'er the infected house,
Boding to read more
Thou said'st--O, it comes o'er my memory
As doth the raven o'er the infected house,
Boding to all!--He had my handkerchief.
