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Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror
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
Life
Respite
Horror
Comfort
Whose
Dying
Stills
Still
Love
Injurious
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Good wine needs no bush.
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We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone.
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Love is merely a madness and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do and the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too.
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Fire that's closest kept burns most of all.
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What many men desire--that 'many' may be meant By the fool multitude that choose by show, Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach, Which pries not to th' interior, but like the martlet Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty.
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What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?
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Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent.
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Liberty plucks justice by the nose The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart Goes all decorum.
William Shakespeare
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)
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Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie, And young affection gapes to be his heir That fair for which love groan'd for and would die, With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.
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The hideous god of war.
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There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple. If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with't
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For 'tis the sport to have the engineer Hoist with his own petar and't shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon.
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The soul of this man is his clothes.
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Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.
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Love is too young to know what conscience is.
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Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use and keep thy friend Under thy own life's key: be check'd for silence, But never tax'd for speech.
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I scorn you, scurvy companion.
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Be not afraid of greatness.
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Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.
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