Quote

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot Follow your spirit: and upon this charge, Cry — God for Harry! England and Saint George!

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
Upon
Saint
Greyhounds
Spirit
Cry
Afoot
Like
England
Straining
Follow
Breach
Game
Harry
Stand
Slips
Games
Charge
Start
George

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All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, An 'tis no better reckoned but of these Who worship dirty gods.
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Thus can the demigod Authority Make us pay down for our offense by weight The words of heaven on whom it will, it will, On whom it will not, so: yet still 'tis just.
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Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might. Whoever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight.
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Fare thee well, king: sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.
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Who seeks, and will not take, when once 'tis offer'd, Shall never find it more.
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A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain,... makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes.
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Thou art most rich, being poor Most choice, forsaken and most lov'd, despis'd! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon.
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Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.
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A little fire is quickly trodden out, Which, being suffer'd, rivers cannot quench.
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Honour travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast.
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Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear a robust periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings.
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Why, universal plodding poisons up The nimble spirits in the arteries, As motion and long-during action tires The sinewy vigor of the traveller.
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Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle.
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A lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing.
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She moves me not, or not removes at least affection's edge in me.
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Put on The dauntless spirit of resolution.
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Say she rail why, I'll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown I'll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash'd with dew. Say she be mute and will not speak a word Then I'll commend her volubility, and say she uttereth piercing eloquence.
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