Some say, compar'd to Bononcini,

That Mynheer Handel's but a ninny;

Others aver that he to Handel

Is scarcely fit to hold a candle.

Strange all this difference should be

'Twixt Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

John Byrom (1691-1763): On the Feuds between Handel and Bononcini.

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Tempest. Act ii. Sc. 2.

'T is strange, but true; for truth is always strange,—

Stranger than fiction.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Don Juan. Canto xiv. Stanza 101.

A "strange coincidence," to use a phrase

By which such things are settled nowadays.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Don Juan. Canto vi. Stanza 78.

When I consider life, 't is all a cheat.

Yet fool'd with hope, men favour the deceit;

Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.

To-morrow's falser than the former day;

Lies worse, and while it says we shall be blest

With some new joys, cuts off what we possest.

Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,

Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;

And from the dregs of life think to receive

What the first sprightly running could not give.

John Dryden (1631-1701): Aurengzebe. Act iv. Sc. 1.

Diseased Nature oftentimes breaks forth

In strange eruptions.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry IV. Part I. Act iii. Sc. 1.

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.

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woful 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 slipper'd 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.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 7.

Now, by two-headed Janus,

Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 1.

And often did beguile her of her tears,

When I did speak of some distressful stroke

That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs;

She swore, in faith, 't was strange, 't was passing strange.

'T was pitiful, 't was wondrous pitiful;

She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd

That Heaven had made her such a man; she thank'd me,

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story,

And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:

She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd,

And I loved her that she did pity them.

This only is the witchcraft I have used.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Othello. Act i. Sc. 3.

Your face, my thane, is as a book where men

May read strange matters. To beguile the time,

Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,

Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,

But be the serpent under 't.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act i. Sc. 5.

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.

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woful 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 slipper'd 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.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 7.

Full fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made;

Those are pearls that were his eyes:

Nothing of him that doth fade

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Tempest. Act i. Sc. 2.

'T is strange that death should sing.

I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,

Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death,

And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings

His soul and body to their lasting rest.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King John. Act v. Sc. 7.

Cowards die many times before their deaths;

The valiant never taste of death but once.

Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,

It seems to me most strange that men should fear;

Seeing that death, a necessary end,

Will come when it will come.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Julius Caesar. Act ii. Sc. 2.

What a strange thing is man! and what a stranger

Is woman!

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Don Juan. Canto ix. Stanza 64.

O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act i. Sc. 5.

'T is strange, but true; for truth is always strange,—

Stranger than fiction.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Don Juan. Canto xiv. Stanza 101.