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Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.
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
Red
Rather
Guilt
Multitudinous
Making
Sea
Neptune
Hands
Clean
Hyperbole
Play
Ocean
Constancy
Great
Green
Pluck
Blood
Seas
Wash
Hand
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My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.
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So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.
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You are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any.
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I fill up a place, which may be better... when I have made it empty.
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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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A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.
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ROSS You must have patience, madam. LADY MACDUFF He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors.
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May never glorious sun reflex his beams Upon the country where you make abode! But darkness and the gloomy shade of death Environ you till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves.
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Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth.
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Oh, God! I have an ill-divining soul!
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He hath not eat paper, as it were he hath not drunk ink his intellect is not replenished he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts. (Shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost, IV)
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I am sure, Though you can guess what temperance should be, You know not what it is.
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That island of England breeds very valiant creatures their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage.
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And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And asleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me must be heard of, say, I taught thee.
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The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.
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My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree Murder, stern murder in the dir'st degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, 'Guilty!, guilty!
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What's brave, what's noble, let's do it after the Roman fashion.
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Bid the dishonest man mend himself if he mend, he is no longer dishonest.
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Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
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I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.
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