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Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
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
Forth
Tables
Meats
Marriage
Coldly
Horatio
Furnish
Thrift
Funeral
Meat
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A blind man can't forget the eyesight he lost, show me any beautiful girl. How can her beauty not remind me of the one whose beauty surpasses hers?
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The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.
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Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
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And either victory, or else a grave.
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We that are true lovers run into strange capers.
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Love is blind, it stops lovers seeing the silly things they do.
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You are not wood, you are not stones, but men And being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad.
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Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.
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Let never day nor night unhallowed pass, but still remember what the Lord hath done.
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Lay on, McDuff, and be damned he who first cries, 'Hold, enough!
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He hath disgrac'd me and hind'red me half a million laugh'd at my losses, mock'd at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated my enemies. And what's his reason? I am a Jew.
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Omittance is no quittance.
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I'll be at charges for a looking-glass And entertain a score or two of tailors To study fashions to adorn my body: Since I am crept in favor with myself, I will maintain it with some little cost.
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But love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offense, Crying, 'That's good that's gone.
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No .... holy father, throw away that thought. Believe not that the dribbling dart of love Can pierce a complete bosom.
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Thou mak'st me merry: I am full of pleasure let us be jocund
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Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!
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But most it is presumption in us when the help of heaven we count the act of men.
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Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange.
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Many strokes, though with a little axe, hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.
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