Quote

I have heard of your paintings too, well enough God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another: you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nick-name God's creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I'll no more on't it hath made me mad.

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
Enough
Heard
Nick
Made
Names
Paintings
Make
Face
Hath
Faces
Mad
Given
Creatures
Another
Ignorance
Amble
Wells
Painting
Wantonness
Well
Name
Lisp

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A dream itself is but a shadow.
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I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking: I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment.
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'Twas merry when You wagered on your angling, when your diver Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up.
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Cowards die many times before their deaths the valiant never taste of death but once.
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There is a world elsewhere.
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There live not three good men unhanged in England and one of them is fat and grows old.
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Rumor is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.
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Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.
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They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.
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Nor aught so good but strained from that fair use, Revolts from true birth stumbling on abuse.
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She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.
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A substitute shines brightly as a king Until a king be by, and then his state Empties itself, as dot an inland brook Into the main of waters.
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Let no such man be trusted.
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And where two raging fires meet together, they do consume the thing that feeds their fury.
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But as the unthought-on accident is guilty To what we wildly do, so we profess Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies Of every wind that blows.
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When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh! the doxy, over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
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