Quote

Come, Let's have one other gaudy night. Call to me All my sad captains. Fill our bowls once more. Let's mock the midnight bell.

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
Bowls
Midnight
Bells
Retirement
Gaudy
Fill
Mock
Call
Bell
Night
Farewell
Come
Captains

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He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.
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After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.
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So fair and foul a day i had not seen.
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You are not wood, you are not stones, but men And being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad.
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By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost It yearns me not if me my garments wear Such outward things dwell not in my desires: But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive.
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Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.
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The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew, for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars.
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Ay, is it not a language I speak?
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If he be so resolved, I can o'ersway him for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betrayed with trees And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers
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Glory is like a circle in the water
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Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.
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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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My dear, dear Lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation that away Men are but gilded loan or painted clay... Mine honor is my life both grow in one Take honor from me, and my life is done.
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Beauty within itself should not be wasted.
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Villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man Snakes in my heart-blood warm'd, that sing my heart Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas.
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By heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be mekancholy.
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My rage is gone, And I am struck with sorrow. Take him up. Help, three o' th' chiefest soldiers I'll be one. Beat thou the drum, that it speaks mournfully, Trail your steel spikes. Though in this city he Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, Which to this hour bewail the injury, Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist.
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For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.
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The attempt and not the deed confounds us.
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