Poems List

’Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to support him after.

Timon of Athens [1605–1608], act I, sc. i, l. 108

’Tis not in the bond.

IV, i, l. 263

’Tis not my speeches that you do mislike, But ’tis my presence that doth trouble ye. Rancor will out.

King Henry VI, Part II [1590–1591], act I, sc. i, l. 141

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’Tis not the balm, the scepter and the ball, The sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The intertissued robe of gold and pearl, The farced title running ’fore the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world, No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony, Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave, Who with a body fill’d and vacant mind Gets him to rest, cramm’d with distressful bread.

IV, i, l. 280

’Tis now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.

III, ii, l. 413

’Tis the mind that makes the body rich.

’Tis the strumpet’s plague To beguile many and be beguil’d by one.

IV, i, l. 97

’Tis well said again; And ’tis a kind of good deed to say well: And yet words are no deeds.

III, ii, l. 153

’Zounds! I was never so bethump’d with words Since I first call’d my brother’s father dad.

II, i, l. 466

“Fondling,” she saith, “since I have hemm’d thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer; Feed where thou wilt, on mountain, or in dale: Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.”

l. 229

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