William Shakespeare ( 10 of 1881 )
Like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his read more
Like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his own lie. -The Tempest. Act i. Sc. 2.
He plays o' th' viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four
languages word for word without book, and hath all read more
He plays o' th' viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four
languages word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts
of nature.
Modest doubt is call'd The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To the bottom of the worst. -Troilus read more
Modest doubt is call'd The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To the bottom of the worst. -Troilus and Cressida. Act ii. Sc. 2.
Exceedingly well read. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act iii. Sc. 1.
Exceedingly well read. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act iii. Sc. 1.
(Andrew:) I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But
what's your jest?
read more
(Andrew:) I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But
what's your jest?
(Maria:) A dry jest, sir.
(Andrew:) Are you full of them?
(Maria:) Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers' ends. Marry, now I
let go your hand, I am barren.
No, Antony, take the lot:
But, first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery
Shall have the fame. read more
No, Antony, take the lot:
But, first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery
Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Caesar
Grew faw with feasting there.
O that this too too sullied flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,
Or read more
O that this too too sullied flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew,
Or that the Everlasting had not fixed
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter.
It needs not nor it boots thee not, proud queen,
Unless the adage must be verified,
That read more
It needs not nor it boots thee not, proud queen,
Unless the adage must be verified,
That beggars mounted run their horse to death.
Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores. -The Merry Wives of Windsor. Act i. Sc. 3.
Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores. -The Merry Wives of Windsor. Act i. Sc. 3.
(Macbeth:) How does your patient, doctor?
(Doctor:) Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with read more
(Macbeth:) How does your patient, doctor?
(Doctor:) Not so sick, my lord,
As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies
That keep her from her rest.
(Macbeth:) Cure her of that!
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory of a rooted sorrow,
Raze out the written troubles of the brain,
And with some sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of the perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart?
(Doctor:) Therein the patient
Must minister to himself.
(Macbeth:) Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it!
