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The villany you teach me I shall execute and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.
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
Instruction
Shall
Teach
Better
Shylock
Hard
Villainy
Merchants
Execute
Venice
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Lovers ever run before the clock
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The heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre Observe degree, priority, and place, Insisture, course, proportion, season, form, Office, and custom, in all line of order.
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GLOUCESTER: I do not know that Englishman alive With whom my soul is any jot at odds, More than the infant that is born to-night: I thank my God for my humility.
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We are not the first Who with best meaning have incurred the worst
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Thou speak'st like him's untutored to repeat: Who makes the fairest show means most deceit.
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Great floods have flown From simple sources.
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Take all the swift advantage of the hours.
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And thus I clothe my naked villainy With odd old ends stol'n out of holy writ And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
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All the world is a stage and we are merely players.
William Shakespeare
But as the unthought-on accident is guilty To what we wildly do, so we profess Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies Of every wind that blows.
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What a terrible era in which idiots govern the blind.
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Jesu, Jesu, the mad days that I have spent! And to see how many of my old acquaintance are dead!
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O no, thy love though much, is not so great, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.
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Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile.
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Mine eyes smell onions: I shall weep anon.
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For now I stand as one upon a rock environed with a wilderness of sea, who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, expecting ever when some envious surge will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
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I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.
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Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.
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The mightier man, the mightier is the thing That makes him honored or begets him hate For greatest scandal waits on greatest state.
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My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
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