Quote

GLOUCESTER: Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, As I had rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smother'd. But God be thanked. . . .

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
Poverty
Brooks
Rather
Bark
Spirit
Defects
Gloucester
Many
Mighty
Smother
Much
Hide
Vapour
Greatness
Covet
Sea
Thanked
Glory
Brook

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Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!
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What Time hath scanted men in hair, he hath given them in wit.
William Shakespeare
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Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
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for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)
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Old Time the clock-setter.
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Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn but I shall have my pocket picked?
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A college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?
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And why not death rather than living torment? To die is to be banish'd from myself And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her Is self from self: a deadly banishment!
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I'll forbear And am fallen out with my more headier will To take the indisposed and sickly fit For the sound man.
William Shakespeare
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For a noble heart, the most precious gift becomes poor, when the giver stops loving.
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Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue.
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The seeming truth which cunning times put on to entrap the wisest.
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We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
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Journeys end in lovers meeting.
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Why should we rise because 'tis light? Did we lie down because t'was night?
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Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
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Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.
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Conceit in weakest bodies works the strongest.
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Well could he ride, and often men would say, That horse his mettle from his rider takes: Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes! And controversy hence a question takes, Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manage by the well-doing steed.
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I dreamt my lady came and found me dead . . . . . . . . . . . . And breathed such life with kisses in my lips That I revived and was an emperor.
William Shakespeare