Oyonale - 3D art and graphic experiments
ShakeSpam
Click on the verses to see them in context. Shakespeare's plays are available from the Gutenberg Projet.
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And make me die the thrall of Margaret's curse, Death of thy soul! those linen cheeks of thine O my accursed womb, the bed of death! - And sayest thou yet that exile is not death!
Told the sad story of my father's death, That princely novice, was struck dead by thee? The lights burn blue.--It is now dead midnight. Rivers that died at Pomfret! despair and die! In deadly hate the one against the other: The kindred of the queen, must die at Pomfret. I say, my lord, they have deserved death. That fair for which love groan'd for, and would die, To keep those many many bodies safe Soldiers, sir. Of disobedient opposition Some lay in dead men's skulls; and in the holes Now, fair befall you! he deserv'd his death;