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I can hardly forbear hurling things at him.
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
Forbear
Hurling
Hardly
Things
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A time, methinks, too short To make a world-without-end bargain in.
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Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?
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The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good. Pity is the virtue of the law, and none but tyrants use it cruelly.
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The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company.
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There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
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Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!
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Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.
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The fortune of us that are the moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the moon.
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Though she be but little, she is fierce!
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Death is a fearful thing.
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O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a robe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such pain the cap of him that makes him fine Yet keeps his book uncrossed.
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Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet--nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.
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There is a devilish mercy in the judge, if you'll implore it, that will free your life, but fetter you till death.
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I feel it gone, yet know not when it left.
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Here is a rural fellow that will not be denied your Highness' presence: he brings you figs.
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To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little more than a little is by much too much.
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There are occasions and causes, why and wherefore in all things.
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Go, bid the soldiers shoot.
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How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!
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O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch! Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice?
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