William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here we will sit and let the sounds of music Creep in read more
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here we will sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: There 's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins. Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. -The Merchant of Venice. Act. v. Sc. 1.
O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, read more
O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.
What wound did ever heal but my degrees?
What wound did ever heal but my degrees?
Tongues I'll hang on every tree
That shall civil sayings show. . . .
Tongues I'll hang on every tree
That shall civil sayings show. . . .
The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve.
Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.
The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve.
Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.
There was speech in their dumbness, language in their very
gesture.
There was speech in their dumbness, language in their very
gesture.
Fair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime rot and consume themselves in little time.
Fair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime rot and consume themselves in little time.
What is the city but the people?
What is the city but the people?
Our revels are now ended. These our actors
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are read more
Our revels are now ended. These our actors
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all of which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Is rounded with a sleep.
I cannot, nor I will not hold me still;
My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.
I cannot, nor I will not hold me still;
My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.
