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Now, God be praised, that to believing souls gives light in darkness, comfort in despair.
William Shakespeare
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William Shakespeare
Age: 51 †
Born: 1564
Born: April 26
Died: 1616
Died: April 23
Actor
Dramaturge
Playwright
Poet
Stage Actor
Writer
Stratford-upon-Avon
Warwickshire
Shakespeare
The Bard
The Bard of Avon
William Shakspere
Swan of Avon
Bard of Avon
Shakespere
Shakespear
Shakspeare
Shackspeare
William Shake‐ſpeare
Comfort
Darkness
Gives
Inspirational
Praised
Light
Believing
Soul
Souls
Giving
Cancer
Believe
Despair
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Discuss unto me: art thou officer, Or art thou base, common, and popular?
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I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The Genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.
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By-and-by is easily said.
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This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, this Senior Junior, giant dwarf...Cupid.
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And where two raging fires meet together, they do consume the thing that feeds their fury.
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I and my bosom must debate awhile, and then I would no other company.
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The means that heaven yields must be embraced, and not neglected else, if heaven would, and we will not heaven's offer, we refuse the proffered means of succor and redress.
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The pow'r that I have on you is to spare you The malice towards you to forgive you.
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Demetrius: Villain, what hast thou done? Aaron: That which thou canst not undo. Chiron: Thou hast undone our mother. Aaron: Villain, I have done thy mother.
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There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee.
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Ay me! sad hours seem long.
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A beggar's book outworths a noble's blood.
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Love is merely a madness.
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O mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
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Hope is a lover's staff walk hence with that And manage it against despairing thoughts.
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There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achieved by others' death.
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A stirring dwarf we do allowance give Before a sleeping giant.
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The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow We are such stuff as dreams are made of.
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O, beware, my lord, of jealousy It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on.
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I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquillity.
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