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We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.
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
Clearness
Foul
Wound
Publish
Modesty
Wounds
Make
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Love denied blights the soul we owe to God.
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I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.
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Then to Silvia let us sing that Silvia is excelling. She excels each mortal thing upon the dull earth dwelling.
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For by his face straight shall you know his heart.
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It hurts not the tongue to give fair words.
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I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
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If she lives till doomsday, she'll burn a week longer than the whole world.
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Give me my sin again.
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Keep time! How sour sweet music is when time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives. I wasted time and now doth time waste me.
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Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content! Farewell the plumed troops, and the big wars That make ambition virtue.
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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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All places that the eye of heaven visits Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. Teach thy necessity to reason thus There is no virtue like necessity.
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We suffer a lot the few things we lack and we enjoy too little the many things we have.
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Fight valiantly to-day and yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, for thou art framed of the firm truth of valor.
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O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
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For honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
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Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee.
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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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True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings.
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That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)
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