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A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears: see how yond justice rails upon yon simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: change places and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief?
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
Men
Eyes
Thine
World
Simple
Rail
Upon
Thief
Eye
Thieves
Change
Ears
Hark
May
Places
Rails
Look
Goes
Dandy
Looks
Justice
Handy
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Love is like a child, That longs for everything it can come by
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Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine, Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state, Makes me with thy strength to communicate.
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I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered.
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There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.
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ROMEO to BALTHASAR But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry In what I further shall intend to do, By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs: The time and my intents are savage-wild, More fierce and more inexorable far Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.
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Silence is the perfect herald of joy.
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Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
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Give me my sin again.
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What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
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O, she's warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.
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Love is a wonderful, terrible thing
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He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat.
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But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.
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Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.
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Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
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He was not so much brain as earwax
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Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!
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O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having. . . .
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Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.
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