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My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.
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
Anger
Break
Inspirational
Tell
Else
Shrews
Heart
Taming
Concealing
Tongue
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Twas a clever quibble. Here, a garment for it.
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Before, I loved thee as a brother, John, But now, I do respect thee as my soul.
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When Fortune means to men most good, She looks upon them with a threatening eye.
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Though I be but prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy.
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O heresy in fair, fit for these days, A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.
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And to be merry best becomes you for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour. BEATRICE No, sure, my lord, my mother cried but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.
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So many horrid Ghosts.
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Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might. Whoever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight.
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I understand thy kisses, and thou mine, And that's a feeling disputation.
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It may do good pride hath no other glass To show itself but pride, for supple knees Feed arrogance and are the proud man's fees.
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Even through the hollow eyes of death I spy life peering.
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Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.
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There's nothing in this world can make me joy.
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Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
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And worse I may be yet: the worst is not So long as we can say 'This is the worst.
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The mind of guilt is full of scorpions.
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See the minutes, how they run, How many make the hour full complete How many hours bring about the day How many days will finish up the year How many years a mortal man may live.
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God, the best maker of all marriages, Combine your hearts into one.
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Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
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Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.
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