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He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.
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
Chronicle
Proud
Chronicles
Trumpet
Trumpets
Eats
Glass
Glasses
Pride
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Omission to do what is necessary Seals a commission to a blank of danger And danger, like an ague, subtly taints Even then when we sit idly in the sun.
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The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Shall come again, transform'd to orient pearl, Advantaging their loan with interest Of ten times double gain of happiness.
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It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
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Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?
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Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.
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Gentle and low, an excellent thing in woman.
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I will not choose what many men desire, Because I will not jump with common spirits And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.
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Boldness be my friend.
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Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I every man to his business.
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When the age is in, the wit is out
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Nature does require her times of preservation.
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He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter.
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Pause awhile, And let my counsel sway you.
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He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion.
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Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.
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Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.
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Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself.
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Lovers ever run before the clock
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Better conquest never canst thou make than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts against giddy, loose suggestions.
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In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. -Sonnet 73
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