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 the dire death of my poor sons and brothers? Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Though not by war, by surfeit die your king, Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy. Doth not she think me an old murderer, How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Almost to jelly with the act of fear, Together with all forms, moods, shows of grief, The men you talk of came into my mind.-- My lord, the army of great Buckingham,-- Which you have promised I shall possess.