How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown, Within whose circuit is Elysium And all that poets feign of bliss and joy!
And many strokes, though with a little axe, Hew down and fell the hardest-timbered oak.
_King Henry VI. Part III. Act ii. Sc. 1._
The smallest worm will turn, being trodden on.
_King Henry VI. Part III. Act ii. Sc. 2._
Didst thou never hear That things ill got had ever bad success? And happy always was it for that son Whose father for his hoarding went to hell?
_King Henry VI. Part III. Act ii. Sc. 2._
Warwick, peace, Proud setter up and puller down of kings!
_King Henry VI. Part III. Act iii. Sc. 3._
A little fire is quickly trodden out; Which, being suffered, rivers cannot quench.
_King Henry VI. Part III. Act iv. Sc. 8._
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; The thief doth fear each bush an officer.
Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York, And all the clouds that loured upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths, Our bruised arms hung up for monuments, Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them,-- Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun.
To leave this keen encounter of our wits.
Was ever woman in this humour wooed? Was ever woman in this humour won?
The world is grown so bad, That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.[96-1]
And thus I clothe my naked villany With old odd ends stolen out of[96-2] holy writ, And seem a saint when most I play the devil.