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O braggart vile and damned furious wight!
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
Furious
Damned
Braggart
Wight
Braggarts
Sassy
Vile
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Thou art the Mars of malcontents.
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Bell, book and candle shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on.
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If she be not honest, chaste, and true, there's no man happy.
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He's truly valiant that can wisely suffer The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs His outsides, to wear them like his raiment, carelessly, And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart, To bring it into danger.
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Captain of our fairy band, Helena is here at hand, And the youth, mistook by me, Pleading for a lover's fee. Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be!
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Shall I compare thee to a summer day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate... When in eternal lines to time thou growst So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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Oh what fools we mortals are.
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A Loud Laugh Bespeaks a Vacant Mind!
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All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.
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Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.
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Honour travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast.
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Et tu Brute! (You too, Brutus!)
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You're in love? Out Out of love? I love someone. She doesn't love me.
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Give me a bowl of wine. I have not that alacrity of spirit Nor cheer of mind that I was wont to have.
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How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank Here we will sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears soft stillness, and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony
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O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! - Cassio (Act II, Scene iii)
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Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly a flower that dies when it begins to bud a doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.
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A man cannot make him laugh - but that's no marvel he drinks no wine.
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You abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone.
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Talkers are no good doers.
William Shakespeare
