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Virtue is chok'd with foul ambition
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
Foul
Ambition
Virtue
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Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace.
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He hath eaten me out of house and home.
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I’ll look to like, if looking liking move But no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
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Love is heavy and light, bright and dark, hot and cold, sick and healthy, asleep and awake- its everything except what it is! (Act 1, scene 1)
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Every man has business and desire, Such as it is.
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How many cowards whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, Who inward searched, have livers white as milk!
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My friends were poor, but honest, so's my love.
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A good leg will fall a straight back will stoop a black beard will turn white a curl'd pate will grow bald a fair face will wither a full eye will wax hollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon or, rather, the sun, and not the moon, — for it shines bright, and never changes, but keeps his course truly.
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Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so Pardon is still the nurse of second woe.
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...lest too light winning make the prize light.
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A light heart lives long.
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Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
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There is nothing serious in Mortality
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Ah me, how weak a thing The heart of woman is!
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Set we forward let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly together. So through Lud's town march, And in the temple of the great Jupiter Our peace we'll ratify, seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were washed, with such a peace.
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The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.
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And do as adversaries do in law, strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.
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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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Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary.
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Travelers never did lie, though fools at home condemn them.
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