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Use every man according to his desert and who should 'scape whipping? Use them after your own honor and dignity, the less they deserve ... the more merit in your bounty.
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
Honor
Scapes
Less
Whipping
Use
Bounty
Every
Merit
Men
Desert
According
Dignity
Deserve
Scape
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He makes a July's day short as December.
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O for a horse with wings!
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You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant But yet you draw not iron, for my heart Is true as steel: leave you your power to draw, And I shall have no power to follow you.
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Men of few words are the best men. (3.2.41)
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. . . nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it he died As one that had been studied in his death To throw away the dearest thing he owed, As 'twere a careless trifle.
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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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Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
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Courage and comfort, all shall yet go well
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They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.
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Mechanic slaves With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall Uplift us to the view.
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Bear with my weakness. My old brain is troubled. Be not disturbed with my infirmity.
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In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.
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We do not keep the outward form of order, where there is deep disorder in the mind.
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All is well ended if this suit be won. That you express content which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day.
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But there is no such man for, brother, men Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel but, tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before Would give preceptial medicine to rage, Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air and agony with words.
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Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house as your pearl in your foul oyster.
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