And it is great To do that thing that ends all other deeds, Which shackles accidents, and bolts up change. |
And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire. |
And liberty plucks justice by the nose. |
And makes me poor indeed. |
And many strokes though with a little axe hew down and fell the hardest-timbered oak. |
And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings. |
And now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. |
And now this pale swan in her watery nest Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending. |
And now what rests but that we spend the time/ With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows,/ Such as befits the pleasure of the court?/ Sound drums and trumpets! farewell sour annoy!/ For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy. |
And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not |
And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse. |
And simple truth miscalled simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill. |
And summer's lease hath all too short a date. |
And then it started like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. |
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. |