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for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)

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
Great
Grief
Throne
Kings
Sorrows
Sorrow
Thrones
Scene
Supporter
Hold
Bows
Huge
Firm
Earth
John
Come
King
Constance

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See the minutes, how they run, How many make the hour full complete How many hours bring about the day How many days will finish up the year How many years a mortal man may live.
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To saucy doubts and fears.
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A sentence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit How quickly the wrong side may be turned outward!
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Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.
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Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears: But yet It is our trick nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will: when these are gone, The woman will be out. — Adieu, my lord! I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, But that this folly drowns it.
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All thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test here, afore heaven, I ratify this my rich gift.
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Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty Calls virtue hypocrite takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love, And sets a blister there makes marriage vows As false as dicers' oaths.
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Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy: sayest thou that house is dark?
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So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
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The Hebrew will turn Christian he grows kind.
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We are oft to blame in this, - 'tis too much proved, - that with devotion's visage, and pios action we do sugar o'er the devil himself.
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Every man has business and desire, Such as it is.
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The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily untie.
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Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man's pleasure.
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O, beware, my lord, of jealousy It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on.
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Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.
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