The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.
But love is blind and lovers cannot see
We do pray for mercy, and that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy.
I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?
Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go.
All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.
A splendour of miscellaneous spirits.
If I could live in one city and do every single thing I do there, I would choose Venice. You can't turn your head without seeing something amazing.
It's so easy for me to get caught up in the feeling of a city like Venice, where everything is just beautiful color and gorgeous buildings that are so peaceful. You can roam around and get lost in the labyrinth.
Nothing ever seems straightforward in Venice, least of all its romances.
Wherever you go in life, you will feel somewhere over your shoulder a pink, castellated shimmering presence, the domes and riggings and crooked pinacles of the Serenissima
Streets flooded. Please advise.
I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
He is well paid that is well satisfied.
In law, what plea so tainted and corrupts, but being seasoned with a gracious voice obscures the show of evil.
Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, A goodly apple rotten at the heart. O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!
All's well that ends well.
If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottage princes' palaces.
Bassanio: Do all men kill all the things they do not love? Shylock: Hates any man the thing he would not kill? Bassanio: Every offence is not a hate at first.
In sooth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me, you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.
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