Театр. Пьесы зарубежных писателей

But virtue, as it never will be moved,
Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven,
So lust, though to a radiant angel linked,
Will sate itself in a celestial bed
And prey on garbage.

“I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God
has given you one face, and you make yourselves
another: you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and
nick-name God's creatures, and make your wantonness
your ignorance. Go to, I'll no more on't; it hath
made me mad.

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio.

By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me.

Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world. Now I could drink hot blood and do such bitter business as the day would quake to look upon.

Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.

And keep you in the rear of your affection,
Out of the shot and danger of desire,
The chariest maid is prodigal enough
If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.

Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?

Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
Had left the flushing of her gallèd eyes,
She married. O, most wicked speed, to post
With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!