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By the apostle Paul, shadows tonight Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers.
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
Soul
Paul
Tonight
Substance
Apostle
Soldier
Apostles
Terror
Richard
Ten
Struck
Shadow
Shadows
Thousand
Soldiers
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So many hours must I take my rest So many hours must I contemplate.
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I have nothing Of woman in me now from head to foot I am marble-constant.
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I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an If, as, 'If you said so, then I said so' and they shook hands and swore brothers. Your If is the only peacemaker much virtue in If.
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I will not choose what many men desire, Because I will not jump with common spirits And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.
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But love is blind and lovers cannot see
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Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand.
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You must not think That we are made of stuff so fat and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger And think it pastime.
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What, shall one of us, That struck for the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers--shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
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Pardon's the word to all.
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Hereditary sloth instructs me.
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Farewell! a long farewell to all my greatness!
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Nothing can come of nothing.
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There's nothing in this world can make me joy: Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.
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Love runs away from those chasing her, and those who run away, she throws herself on his neck.
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Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
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The means that heaven yields must be embraced, and not neglected else, if heaven would, and we will not heaven's offer, we refuse the proffered means of succor and redress.
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Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?
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What our contempts do often hurl from us, We wish it ours again.
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When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.
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