Cymbeline, a play of uncertain date by William Shakespeare, was produced as early as 1611. It has been described as a tragi-comedy or a romance and is set in pre-Roman Britain.
- Lest the bargain should catch cold and starve.
- His fortunes all lie speechless, and his name
Is at last gasp.
- Boldness be my friend!
Arm me, audacity, from head to foot!
- Every Jack-slave hath his belly-full of fighting.
- The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense
Repairs itself by rest.
- How bravely thou becom'st thy bed, fresh lily.
- 'Tis her breathing that
Perfumes the chamber thus.
- The most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turned up ace.
- Hark! hark! The lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chalic'd flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise:
- As chaste as unsunn'd snow.
- Some griefs are med'cinable.
- Richer, than doing nothing for a bribe;
Prouder, than rustling in unpaid-for silk.
- Our cage
We make a choir, as doth the prison'd bird
And sing our bondage freely.
- The art o' the court,
As hard to leave as keep; whose top to climb
Is certain falling, or so slippery that
The fear’s as bad as falling.
- 'Tis slander,
Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie
All corners of the world.
- Some jay of Italy,
Whose mother was her painting, hath betray’d him:
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion.
- It is no act of common passage, but
A strain of rareness.
- I have not slept one wink.
- Thou art all the comfort
The gods will diet me with.
Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth
Finds the down pillow hard.
- By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not,
An earthly paragon! Behold divineness
No elder than a boy.
- Triumphs for nothing, and lamenting toys,
Is jollity for apes and grief for boys.
- I thought he slept, and put
My clouted brogues from off my feet.
- With fairest flowers,
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shall not lack
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose, nor
The azur'd harebell, like thy veins.
- Fear no more the heat o' the sun
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
- O, the charity of a penny cord! it sums up thousands in a trice.
- O, never say hereafter
But I am truest speaker: you call’d me brother
When I was but your sister; I you, brothers,
When you were so indeed.
Last modified on 2 September 2008, at 00:56