Category William Shakespeare

I. When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutor’d youth, Unskilful in the world’s false forgeries, Thus vainly thinking that she thinks…

(from Macbeth, spoken by Macbeth) Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out,…

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie Which we ascribe to heaven. The fated sky Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. What power is it which mounts my love so…

Three witches, casting a spell … Round about the cauldron go; In the poison’d entrails throw. Toad, that under cold stone Days and nights hast thirty one Swelter’d venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot. Double, double…

WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no work to-day! KING. What’s he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin; If we are mark’d to die,…

Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and caldron bubble. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,…

From “A Midsummer-Night’s Dream,” Act V. Scene 2 PUCK sings: NOW the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl,…

Through the house give glimmering light By the dead and drowsy fire; Every elf and fairy sprite hop as light as bird from brier. Now, until the break of day Through this house each fairy stray.

Let the bird of loudest lay, On the sole Arabian tree, Herald sad and trumpet be, To whose sound chaste wings obey. But thou, shrieking harbinger, Foul pre-currer of the fiend, Augur of the fever’s end, To this troop come…

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old customs make this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court! Here feel we not the penalty of…