There’s little of the melancholy element in
her, my lord. She is never sad but when she sleeps,
and not ever sad then,
In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,
The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.
But to my mind, though I am native here
And to the manner born, it is a custom
More honor’d in the breach than the observance.
Not a whit, we defy augury. There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now,
Brutus, I do observe you now of late;
I have not from your eyes that gentleness
And show of love as I was wont to have.
Romans, countrymen, and lovers,Exordium hear me for my cause,
Do not presume too much upon my love,
I may do that I shall be sorry for.
A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities;
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the East, and Juliet is the sun.
On fair ground
I could beat forty of them.
I could myself
Take up a brace o’ th’ best of them,
Vincentio, the Duke
Be absolute for death: either death or life
Shall thereby be the sweeter.
The sense of death is most in apprehension,
And the poor beetle that we tread upon
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great
As when a giant dies.
Sir, I know him, and I love him.
Vincentio, the Duke
Love talks with better knowledge,
O, how full of briers is this working-day world!
They are but burs,
Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy:
This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woeful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play in.
The fingers of the powers above do tune
The harmony of this peace.Synecdoche and Metaphor The vision
Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke
Of this yet scarce-cold battle at this instant
Is full accomplished.
Thus hath the candle singed the moth
O, these deliberate fools, when they do choose,
Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead.—
Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you—
My gracious lord,
Aaron, taking the baby
Sooner this sword shall plow thy bowels up!
You sad-faced men, people and sons of Rome,
By uproars severed as a flight of fowl
Scattered by winds and high tempestuous gusts,
I would not be thy executioner.
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell’st me there is murder in mine eye.
We have scorched the snake, not killed it.
She’ll close and be herself whilst our poor malice
Remains in danger of her former tooth.
To bed, to bed. There’s knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come. Give me your hand. What’s done cannot be undone.
The Queen, my lord, is dead.
She should have died hereafter.
Fetch hither the swain. He must carry me a letter.
A message well sympathized—a horse to be ambassador for an ass.
I will something affect the letter, for it argues facility.
The preyful princess pierced and pricked a pretty pleasing pricket,
We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.
They are worse fools to purchase mocking so.
Now, my young guest, methinks you’re allycholly.
I pray you, why is it?
Come, now a roundel and a fairy song;
Then, for the third part of a minute,
Here’s neither bush nor shrub to bear off
any weather at all. And another storm brewing;
Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling,
and a rich.
Take thy lute, wench. My soul grows sad with troubles.
Sing, and disperse ’em if thou canst.
Stay. I prithee, tell me what thou think’st of me.
That you do think you are not what you are.
Perdita, to Florizell
Now, my fair’st friend,
I would I had some flowers o’ th’ spring,
Fie, cousin Percy, how you cross my father!
I cannot choose.
The Prince of Wales stepped forth before the King,
And, nephew, challenged you to single fight.
I thought the King had more affected the Duke
of Albany than Cornwall.
It did always seem so to us,
Now, our joy,
Although our last and least, to whose young love
The vines of France and milk of Burgundy
Strive to be interessed,
Whom I have ever honored as my king,
Loved as my father,
This is most strange,
That she whom even but now was your best object,
The argument of your praise,
Nuncle, give me
an egg, and I’ll give thee two crowns.
What two crowns shall they be?
Yet better thus, and known to be contemned,
Than still contemned and flattered. To be worst,
Cordelia, kissing Lear
O, my dear father, restoration hang
Thy medicine on my lips,
Let Rome in Tiber melt and the wide arch
Of the ranged empire fall. Here is my space.
The legate of the Pope hath been with me,
And I have made a happy peace with him,
Have you seen my cousin?
No, Pandarus. I stalk about her door
Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks
Staying for waftage.
Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car,
And with thy daring folly burn the world?
Wilt thou reach stars,
A goodly medicine for my aching bones!
O world, world, world ! Thus is the poor agent despised.
O traitors and bawds,