Then he took his staff in his hand, and chose five smooth stones from the wadi, and put them in his shepherd s bag, in the pouch; ...his sling was in his hand, and he drew near to the Philistine.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
i am terrified of biographies, ...... "born in australia in the emerald studded pouch of a sable coated kangaroo my right eye is a perfect star sapphire." i am in favor of myths.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,... With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side, His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players.... They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big, manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange, eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
I see you boys of summer in your ruin. Man in his maggot's barren.... And boys are full and foreign in the pouch. I am the man your father was. We are the sons of flint and pitch. O see the poles are kissing as they cross.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »
They warsled up, they warsled down, Till Sir John fell to the ground,... And there was a knife in Sir Willie's pouch, Gied him a deadlie wound.LESSATTRIBUTION DETAIL »