It is a wise father that knows his own child.
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Search results for Era Elisabetana (final do s
184 allegories found
Page 8 of 19
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There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently.
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O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
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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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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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They stumble that run fast.
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