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Soft pity enters an iron gate.
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
Gate
Gates
Soft
Iron
Pity
Enters
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Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.
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The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
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No, no, I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here.
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You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange wife and a fosset-seller.
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The truest poetry is the most feigning.
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Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.
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Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies.
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Minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this!
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Ay, is it not a language I speak?
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Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!
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If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear.
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Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.
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I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing.
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This above all to thine own self be true.
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But miserable most, to love unloved? This you should pity rather than despise
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Light seeking light doth light of light beguile: So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes.
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