Through tattered clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.
Thou weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath.
Thou know'st 'tis common; all that livesmust die,Passing through nature to eternity.
The moon shines bright. In such a night as this. When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees and they did make no noise, in such a night...
The grief that does not speak whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break.
The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.
The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,Burnt on the water.
Swaggering in the coffee-houses and ruffling it in the streets were the men who had sailed with Frobisher and Drake and Sir Humphrey Gilbert, Hawkins, and Sir Richard Granville; had perhaps witnessed...
Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!
Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself foryou and dote upon the exchange.
She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm 'i th' bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pinned in thought; and, with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smi...
Say she rail; why, I'll tell her plainShe sings as sweetly as a nightingale.Say that she frown; I'll say she looks as clearAs morning roses newly wash'd with dew.Say she be mute and will not speak a w...
SONNET 43When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,For all the day they view things unrespected;But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,And darkly bright are bright in dark directed.Then thou...
Ready to go but never to return.
Presume not that I am the thing I was.
Petruchio: Come, come, you wasp; i' faith, you are too angry.Katherine: If I be waspish, best beware my sting.Petruchio: My remedy is then, to pluck it out.Katherine: Ay, if the fool could find where...
Peace? I hate the word as I hate hell and all Montagues.
Out of her favour, where I am in love.
One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.