Why do we lie ‘Why do we lie,’ she questioned, h… on the grey Autumn wind and its co… ‘all afternoon wasted in bed like… ‘Because we cannot lie all night t…
Spies, you are lights in state, bu… Who, when you’ve burnt yourselves… Stink and are thrown away. End fa…
Fortune, that favours fools, these… We wish away, both for your sakes… Judging spectators; and desire, in… To the author justice, to ourselve… Our scene is London, 'cause we wo…
My awkward grossness grows: I go… I maintain my self in the convicti… that I have as much to say as othe… and more apposite ways of saying i… Certainly I feel it has all been…
Though I am young, and cannot tel… Either what Death or Love is well… Yet I have heard they both bear d… And both do aim at human hearts. And then again, I have been told
HIGH-SPIRITED friend, I send nor balms nor cor’sives to… Your fate hath found A gentler and more agile hand to t… The cure of that which is but corp…
Come leave the loathéd stage, And the more loathsome age, Where pride and impudence in facti… Usurp the chair of wit, Indicting and arraigning, every da…
if only for ten minutes after the mass feeding of schoolch… after the careful inanity of the s… at low tide this was the place
Descended to the shore, odd how we… the young girl with us to herself,… straight to examine the stratified… forgot her entirely in our interes… You marvelled at the shapes the cl…
The sickness hot, a master quit, f… His house in town, and left one se… Ease him corrupted, and gave means… A Cheater, and his punk; who now… Leaving their narrow practice, wer…
Why Gentlemen, doe you know what… Would you ha’kept me out? Christm… Christmas of London, and Captaine… Pray you let me be brought before… 'Tis merrie in hall when beards wa…
RIDWAY robb’d DUNCOTE of thr… Ridway was ta’en, arraign’d, conde… But, for this money, was a courtie… Begg’d Ridway’s pardon: Duncote n… Robb’d both of money, and the law’…
How blest art thou, canst love the… Whether by choyce, or fate, or bot… And, though so neere the Citie, a… Art tane with neithers vice, nor s… That at great times, art no ambiti…
Lucy, you brightness of our sphere… Life of the Muses’ day, their mor… If works, not th’ author’s, their… Whose poems would not wish to be y… But these, desir’d by you, the mak…
He smashed his hand in opening a door for her, and less pain than embarrassment shrieked through him… Concealing both,