The black of the ocean waves was the color of the sorrow in my breast, a sorrow that was never far away and always visible.
All causes shall give way: I am in bloodStepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more,Returning were as tedious as go o’er.
Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
Be not lost So poorly in your thoughts.
My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.
'Macbeth' is an amazing story.
By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none
I have no spurTo prick the sides of my intent, but onlyVaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itselfAnd falls on the other.
My hands are of your colour; but I shame To wear a heart so white.
It was sort of like , thought Fat Charlie, an hour later; in fact, if the witches in had been four little old ladies and if, instead of stirring cauldrons and intoning dread incantations, they had ju...
The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.
What, you egg?