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Dar'st thou die? The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle that we tread upon In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies. - William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure (Isabella at III, i) Death is a fearful thing. - William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure (Claudio at III, i) If I must die: I will encounter darkness as a bride, And hug it in mine arms. - William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure (Claudio at III, i) What's yet in this That bears the name of life? Yet in this life Lie hid more thousand deaths; yet death we fear, That makes these odds all even. - William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure (Vincentio, the Duke at III, i) Here is my journey's end, here is my butt, And very seamark of my utmost sail: Do you go back dismayed? - William Shakespeare, Othello the Moor of Venice (Othello at V, ii) When he shall die Take him and cut him in little stars And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun. - William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet (Juliet at III, ii) Out alas! she's cold, Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated. Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. - William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet (Capulet at IV, v) Here, here I will remain With worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death! - William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet (Romeo at V, iii) I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave. A grave? O, no, a lanthorn, slaught'red youth, For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes This vault a feasting presence full of light. Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interred. How oft when men are at the point of death Have they been merry! which their keepers call A lightning before death. O, how may I Call this a lightning? O my love! my wife! Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. Thou art not conquered. Beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And death's pale flag is not advanced there. - William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet (Romeo at V, iii) Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. Thou are not conquered. Beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And death's pale flag is not advanced there. - William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet (Romeo at V,iii), similar in Richard Johnson's "Famous History of the Seven Champions of Christendom" No, I defy all counsel, all redress, But that which ends all counsel, true redress, Death, death. O, amiable, lovely death! Thou odoriferous stench! Sound rottenness! Arise forth from the couch of lasting light, Thou hate and terror to prosperity, And I will kill thy detestable bones, And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows, And ring these fingers with thy household worms, And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust, And be a carrion monster like thyself. Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil'st And buss thee as thy wife! Miesery's love, O, come to me! - William Shakespeare, The Life and Death of King John (Constance at III, iv) We cannot hold mortality's strong hand. Good lords, although my will to give is living, The suit which you demand is gone and dead. He tells us Arthur is deceased to-might. - William Shakespeare, The Life and Death of King John (King John at IV, ii) Have I not hideous death within my view, Retaining but a quantity of life, Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax Resolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire? - William Shakespeare, The Life and Death of King John (Melun at V, iv) So went to bed, where eagerly his sickness Pursued him still; and three nights after this, After the hour of eight, which he himself Foretold should be his last, full of repentance, Continual meditations, tears and sorrows, He gave his honors to the world again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace. - William Shakespeare, The Life of King Henry the Eighth (Griffith at IV, ii) Nay sure, he's not in hell! He's in Arthur's bosom. if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. 'A made a finer end, and went away an it had been any christom child. 'A parted ev'n just between twelve and one, ev'n at the turning o' th' tide. For after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his finger's end, I knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and 'a babbled of green fields. 'How now, Sir John?' quoth I. 'What, man? be o' good cheer.' So 'a cried out 'God, God, God!' three of four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him 'a should not think of God; I hoped there was no need to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So 'a bade me lay more clothes at this feet. I put my hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as cold as any stone. Then I felt to his knees, and so upward and upward, and all was as cold as any stone. - William Shakespeare, The Life of King Henry the Fifth (Hostess at II, iii), on the death of Falstaff I am a tainted wether of the flock, Meetest for death. The weakest kind of fruit Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me. - William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice (Antonio at VI, i) Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground--long heath, brown furze, anything. The wills above be done, but I would fain die a dry death. - William Shakespeare, The Tempest (Gonzalo at I, i) Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground--long heath, brown furze, anything. - William Shakespeare, The Tempest (Gonzalo at I, i) He that dies pays all debts. - William Shakespeare, The Tempest (Stephano at III, ii) They say the tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony. - William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of King Richard the Second (Gaunt at II, i) Cry woe, destruction, ruin, and decay: The worst is death, and death will have his day. - William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of King Richard the Second (King Richard at III, ii) For God's sake let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings! How some have been deposed, some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed, Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed-- All murdered; for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court; and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp; Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks; Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh which walls about our life Were brass impregnable; and humored thus, Comes at the last, and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king! Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence, Throw away respect, Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty; For you have but mistook me all this while. I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief, Need friends. Subjected thus, - William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of King Richard the Second (King Richard at III, ii) Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs, Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors and talk of wills. And yet not so--for what can we bequeath, Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and all are Bolingbroke's, And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as past and cover to our bones. - William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of King Richard the Second (King Richard at III, ii) That honorable day shall never be seen. Many a time hath banished Norfolk fought For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field, Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens; And, toiled with works of war, retired himself To Italy; and there, at Venice, gave His body to the pleasant country's earth And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ, Under whose colors he had fought so long. - William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of King Richard the Second (Carlisle at IV, i) How now! What means Death in this rude assault? Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument. Go thou and fill another room in hell. That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand Hath with the king's blood stained the king's own land. Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high; Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die. - William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of King Richard the Second (King Richard at V, v) Displaying page 29 of 36 for this topic: << Prev Next >> 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 [29] 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
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