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O, let me kiss that hand! KING LEAR: Let me wipe it first it smells of mortality.
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
Hand
Smells
Hands
Wipe
Firsts
Mortality
First
Kiss
Smell
Kissing
King
Kings
Lear
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Death-counterfeiting sleep.
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Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.
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I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
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They lie deadly that tell you have good faces.
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And how his audit stands who knows, save Heaven?
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I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange with-out heresy.
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Though I be but prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy.
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Sometimes, less is more.
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Opinion, a sovereign mistress of effects.
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But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
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Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty.
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My grief lies all within, And these external manners of lament Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swells with silence in the tortured soul.
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To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes, Recanting goodness, sorry ere 'tis shown But where there is true friendship, there needs none.
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Light seeking light doth light of light beguile: So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes.
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My rage is gone, And I am struck with sorrow. Take him up. Help, three o' th' chiefest soldiers I'll be one. Beat thou the drum, that it speaks mournfully, Trail your steel spikes. Though in this city he Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, Which to this hour bewail the injury, Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist.
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Cheerily to sea the signs of war advance: No king of England, if not king of France
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But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.
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Good reasons must of force give place to better.
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Truly the souls of men are full of dread: Ye cannot reason almost with a man That looks not heavily and full of fear.
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There is plenty of time to sleep in the grave
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