What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it
From action and adventure?
Now, for my life, she's wand'ring to the Tower,
On pure heart's love, to greet the tender Princes.
I am yet
Unknown to woman, never was forsworn,
Scarcely have coveted what was mine own,
At no time broke my faith, would not betray
The devil to his fellow, and delight
No less in truth than life.
There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.
My charity is outrage, life my shame;
And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!
By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death Will seize the doctor too.
Even for the service that long since I did thee,
When I bestrid thee in the wars, and took
Deep scars to save thy life; even for the blood
That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice.
But, Roderigo, if thou hast that
in thee indeed, which I have greater reason to believe now than
ever, I mean purpose, courage, and valor, this night show it; if
thou the next night following enjoy not Desdemona, take me from
this world with treachery and devise engines for my life.
I never did
Offend you in my life; never loved Cassio
But with such general warranty of heaven
As I might love.
Frame thy mind to mirth and merriment, which bars a thousand arms, and lengthens life.
Now if you have a station in the file,
Not i' the worst rank of manhood, say it,
And I will put that business in your bosoms
Whose execution takes your enemy off,
Grapples you to the heart and love of us,
Who wear our health but sickly in his life,
Which in his death were perfect.
O God methinks it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely swain To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run, How many make the hour full complete How many hours bring about the day How many days will finish up the year How many years a mortal man may live.
We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.
But that in all my life, when I was a youth.
Unkindness may do much,
And his unkindness may defeat my life,
But never taint my love.
That life is better life, past fearing death,
Than that which lives to fear.
Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth.
No, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life.
What's more to do,
Which would be planted newly with the time,
As calling home our exiled friends abroad
That fled the snares of watchful tyranny,
Producing forth the cruel ministers
Of this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen,
Who, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands
Took off her life; this, and what needful else
That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace
We will perform in measure, time, and place.
This life is most jolly.
But do thy worst to steal thy self away,
For term of life thou art assurèd mine,
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Here is everything advantageous to life.
I have lived long enough. My way of life is to fall into the sere, the yellow leaf, and that which should accompany old age, as honor, love, obedience, troops of friends I must not look to have.
Now his son,
Henry the Eighth, life, honour, name, and all
That made me happy, at one stroke has taken
For ever from the world.
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the country, city, court,
Yea, and of this our life; swearing that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
To fright the animals, and to kill them up
In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.
Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth,
I will appeach the villain.
As all the world is cheered by the sun,
So I by that; it is my day, my life.
In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life.
My way of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf,
And that which should accompany old age,
As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have; but in their stead,
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath,
Which the poor heart would fain deny and dare not.
Methought I heard a voice cry Sleep no more Macbeth does murder sleep, the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief n
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