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Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.

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
Theatre
Thou
Wide
Pageants
Universal
Woeful
Scene
Pageant
Alone
Wherein
Play
Presents
Unhappy

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Benvolio: What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours? Romeo: Not having that, which, having, makes them short.
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Here comes Monseiur Le Beau. Rosalind: With his mouth full of news. Celia: Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young. Rosalind: Then shall we be news-crammed. Celia: All the better we shall be the more marketable.
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Nature's tears are reason's merriment.
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Good reasons must of force give place to better.
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There is a world elsewhere.
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Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter.
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Farewell, fair cruelty.
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Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops. Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.
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What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.
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What must be shall be.
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The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape, In forms imaginary, th' unguided days And rotten times that you shall look upon When I am sleeping with my ancestors.
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Say, thou art mine and ever, My love, as it begins, shall so persevere
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The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, And say what thou seest yond.
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Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.
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Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity In least speak most, to my capacity.
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What is thy sentence then but speechless death.
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While we lie tumbling in the hay.
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From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain and nourish all the world.
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So well thy words become thee as thy wounds.
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The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our own virtues.
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