The Shakespeare Phrase Book

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Little, Brown,, 1881 - 1034 pages
 

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Page 457 - Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind ; And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind...
Page 184 - O thou invisible spirit of wine ! if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.
Page 413 - Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr!
Page 346 - 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.
Page 420 - Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell, That my keen knife see not the wound it makes, Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark, To cry " Hold, hold !
Page 493 - By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear ; Such outward things dwell not in my desires : But, if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive.
Page 242 - em : Take that of me, my friend, who have the power To seal the accuser's lips. Get thee glass eyes ; And, like a scurvy politician, seem To see the things thou dost not.
Page 366 - I hate him for he is a Christian; But more for that in low simplicity He lends out money gratis, and brings down The rate of usance here with us in Venice. If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
Page 360 - One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she 's dead. Ham. How absolute the knave is ! we must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, these three years I have taken note of it ; the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe.— How long hast thou been a grave-maker?
Page 469 - For, get you gone, she doth not mean, away: Flatter, and praise, commend, extol their graces; Though ne'er so black, say, they have angels

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