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William Shakespeare

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare

  • ianodebealıntı yaptı11 yıl önce
    Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest, Now is the time that face should form another, Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so fair whose uneared womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Or who is he so fond will be the tomb, Of his self-love to stop posterity? Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime, So thou through windows of thine age shalt see, Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. But if thou live remembered not to be, Die single and thine image dies with thee.
  • espotterfalıntı yaptı5 yıl önce
    ALLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL
    by William Shakespeare
  • Manar Zouarialıntı yaptı10 ay önce
    Now is the time that face should form another,
  • Manar Zouarialıntı yaptı10 ay önce
    Now is the time that face should form another,
  • Кирис Батьковнalıntı yaptı5 yıl önce
    Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
    Now is the time that face should form another,
    Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
    Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
    For where is she so fair whose uneared womb
    Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
    Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,
    Of his self-love to stop posterity?
    Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee
  • Isabel P.alıntı yaptı7 yıl önce
    PRINCE JOHN. We meet like men that had forgot to speak.
    WARWICK. We do remember; but our argument
    Is all too heavy to admit much talk.
    PRINCE JOHN. Well, peace be with him that hath made us heavy!
    CHIEF JUSTICE. Peace be with us, lest we be heavier!
  • Malavika Reddyalıntı yaptı9 yıl önce
    Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel
  • Денисalıntı yaptı12 yıl önce
    Ham. To be, or not to be- that is the question:
    Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
    The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
    Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
    And by opposing end them. To die- to sleepNo
    more; and by a sleep to say we end
    The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
    That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation
    Devoutly to be wish'd. To die- to sleep.
    To sleep- perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub!
    For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
    When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
    Must give us pause. There's the respect
    That makes calamity of so long life.
    For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
    Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
    The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
    The insolence of office, and the spurns
    That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,
    When he himself might his quietus make
    With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
    To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
    But that the dread of something after deathThe
    undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
    No traveller returns- puzzles the will,
    And makes us rather bear those ills we have
    Than fly to others that we know not of?
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
    And thus the native hue of resolution
    Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
    And enterprises of great pith and moment
    With this regard their currents turn awry
    And lose the name of acti
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