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Thou call'st me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.
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
Cute
Thou
Dog
Cause
Causes
Hadst
Since
Shylock
Call
Fangs
Beware
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There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distill it out.
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As he was valiant, I honour him. But as he was ambitious, I slew him.
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There's no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand.
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He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.
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Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
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Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety.
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O heaven! that one might read the book of fate, and see the revolution of the times.
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The latter end of a fray, and the beginning of a feast, Fits a dull fighter, and a keen guest.
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For many men that stumble at the threshold are well foretold that danger lurks within.
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O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with Time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face. But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?
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Gloucester, we have done deeds of charity, made peace of enmity, fair love of hate, between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.
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Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.
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Let's meet as little as we can
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Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But bad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
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Manhood is melted into courtesies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones, too.
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Ay, is it not a language I speak?
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What is the city but the people?
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True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.
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Instead of weeping when a tragedy occurs in a songbird's life, it sings away its grief. I believe we could well follow the pattern of our feathered friends.
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