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Like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring: when a' was naked, he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife.
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
Carved
Made
Men
Supper
Like
Knife
Radish
World
Knives
Paring
Cheese
Forked
Naked
Radishes
Head
Fantastically
Upon
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Let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them.
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Modest wisdom plucks me from over-credulous haste.
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These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume
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How much more doth beauty beauteous seem by that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
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Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain
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Time is like a fashionable host That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arm outstretch'd, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer.
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There's rosemary and rue. These keep Seeming and savor all the winter long. Grace and remembrance be to you.
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You had measured how long a fool you were upon the ground.
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The world is grown so bad, That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.
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If you would persuade, you must appeal to interest rather than intellect. We are advertis'd by our loving friends.
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Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art, A good mouth-filling oath.
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Sigh no more ladies, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever
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All is well ended, if the suit be won.
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You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
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Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
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Where the greater malady is fixed, The lesser is scarce felt.
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France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits the tread of a man's foot.
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Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago, If thou but think'st him wronged, and mak'st his ear A stranger to thy thoughts.
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Free from gross passion or of mirth of anger constant spirit, not swerving with the blood, garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment, not working with the eye without the ear, and but in purged judgement trusting neither? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought
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