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There is nothing so confining as the prisons of our own perceptions.
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
Perceptions
Prison
Perception
Nothing
Thinking
Confining
Prisons
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One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
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When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air the earth sings when he touches it the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.
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In sooth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me, you say it wearies you But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.
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O horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee!
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This feather stirs she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.
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I hold him but a fool that will endanger His body for a girl that loves him not.
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As full of spirit as the month of May, and as gorgeous as the sun in Midsummer.
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If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul.
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Demand me nothing: what you know, you know.
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Wisely, I say, I am a bachelor.
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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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The spirit of a youth That means to be of note, begins betimes.
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Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.
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No, no, I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here.
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Diseased Nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions.
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There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achieved by others' death.
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Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will!
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[S]ince brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.
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The wind-shak'd surge, with high and monstrous main, Seems to cast water on the burning Bear, And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole.
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He that is robbed, not wanting what is stolen, him not know t, and he's not robbed at all.
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