O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
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Search results for William Shakespeare
139 allegories found
Page 11 of 14
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Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.
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How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!
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Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.
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Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.
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I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
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The quality of mercy is not strain'd, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath.
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Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.
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Though she be but little, she is fierce!
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How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
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