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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
Stand
Slips
Games
Charge
Start
George
Upon
Saint
Greyhounds
Spirit
Cry
Afoot
Like
England
Straining
Follow
Breach
Game
Harry
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O gentle son, Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper, sprinkle cool patience.
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Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.
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Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.
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That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.
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He is the most wretched of men who has never felt adversity.
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That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)
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And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not.
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This blessèd plot, this earth, this realm, this England This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, . . . This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land.
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Reflection is the business of man a sense of his state is his first duty: but who remembereth himself in joy? Is it not in mercy then that sorrow is allotted unto us?
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Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud but, God He knows, thy share thereof is small.
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My pride fell with my fortunes.
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For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
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As I love the name of honour more than I fear death.
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Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypres let me be laid Fly away, fly away, breath I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
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For 'tis the sport to have the engineerHoist with his own petard.
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Sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue.
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Your wisdom is consum'd in confidence. Do not go forth to-day.
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If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul.
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