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O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
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
World
Weary
Uses
Feigning
Madness
Ophelia
God
Unprofitable
Despair
Horatio
Seem
Stale
Use
Flat
Seems
Flats
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I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop.
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Now he'll outstare the lightning. To be furious Is to be frightened out of fear.
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What, shall one of us, That struck for the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers--shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
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Ideas are the very coinage of your brain.
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A college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?
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Cry havoc! and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
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The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.
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Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway, meeting the check of such another day.
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When love begins to sicken and decay it uses an enforced ceremony.
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By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost It yearns me not if me my garments wear Such outward things dwell not in my desires: But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive.
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We that are true lovers run into strange capers.
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Besides, our nearness to the King in love Is near the hate of those love not the King.
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A sympathy in choice.
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Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men?
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It is not night when I do see your face, Therefore I think I am not in the night Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, For you in my respect are all the world: Then how can it be said I am alone, When all the world is here to look on me?
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Taste your legs, sire: put them into motion.
William Shakespeare
When lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner
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Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
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To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be it is impossible: Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.
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'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be, receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed, Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing.
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