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Man, proud man, drest in a little brief authority, most ignorant of what he's most assur d, glassy essence, like an angry ape, plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, as make the angels weep.
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
Littles
Angel
Apes
Little
Angry
Weep
Play
Essence
Brief
Make
Authority
Angels
Men
Pride
Tricks
Like
Proud
Plays
High
Fantastic
Drest
Heaven
Ignorant
Glassy
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Haste is needful in a desperate case.
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Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
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Cry havoc! and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
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Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canter dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all.
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I can no other answer make, but, thanks, and thanks.
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Frame your mind to mirth and merriment which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.
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What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and god-like reason to fust in us unused.
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Nothing is so common as the wish to be remarkable.(attributed to)
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Are you up to your destiny?
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I do know when the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows.
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Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining.
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I can see his pride Peep through each part of him.
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What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!
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The breach of custom Is breach of all.
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Have you not heard it said full oft, A woman's nay doth stand for naught?
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Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow, And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow Thou canst help time to furrow me with age, But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage.
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Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.
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He is winding the watch of his wit by and by it will strike.
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Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date . . .
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Women's weapons, water-drops.
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