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When you depart from me sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.
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
Abides
Depart
Sorrow
Leave
Takes
Happiness
Love
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Better three hours too soon, than one hour to late.
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The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us.
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The gallantry of his grief did put me into a towering passion.
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For my part, I may speak it to my shame, I have a truant been to chivalry And so I hear he doth account me too.
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Policy sits above conscience.
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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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But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.
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Greatness knows itself.
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See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
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But she makes hungry Where she most satisfies.
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My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming I love not less, though less the show appear: That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
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For mine own part, it was Greek to me.
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Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.
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Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
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A dream itself is but a shadow.
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I thought my heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion.
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