William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in read more
But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness. -A Midsummer Night's Dream. Act i. Sc. 1.
Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at read more
Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes.
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise,
Arise, arise!
He that dies pays all debts
He that dies pays all debts
O that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke
To melt read more
O that I were a mockery king of snow,
Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke
To melt myself away in water drops!
No more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me! -King Henry IV. Part I. Act ii. Sc. 4.
No more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me! -King Henry IV. Part I. Act ii. Sc. 4.
This is very midsummer madness. -Twelfth Night. Act iii. Sc. 4.
This is very midsummer madness. -Twelfth Night. Act iii. Sc. 4.
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for read more
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted. -The Merchant of Venice. Act. v. Sc. 1.
For the heavens, he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there
live we as merry as the day read more
For the heavens, he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there
live we as merry as the day is long.
I do beseech you--
Though I perchance am vicious in my guess
(As I confess it is read more
I do beseech you--
Though I perchance am vicious in my guess
(As I confess it is my nature's plague
To spy into abuses, and oft my jealousy
Shapes faults that are not), that your wisdom yet
From one that so imperfectly conjects
Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble
Out of his scattering and unsure observance.
Let fancy still in my sense in Lethe steep;
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
Let fancy still in my sense in Lethe steep;
If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
