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What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted! Thrice is he arm'd, that hath his quarrel just.
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
Stronger
Arms
Heart
Breastplate
Untainted
Thrice
Quarrel
Quarrels
Hath
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Boldness be my friend.
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Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other side
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Many strokes, though with a little axe, hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.
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We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.
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Olivia: What's a drunken man like, fool? Feste: Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool the second mads him and a third drowns him.
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My master hath been an honorable gentleman tricks he hath had in him which gentlemen have.
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Be still prepared for death: and death or life shall thereby be the sweeter.
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Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye.
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In such business Action is eloquence, and the eyes of th’ ignorant More learned than the ears.
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Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
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Equality of two domestic powers Breeds scrupulous faction.
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Honour travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast.
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Ay, but to die and go we know not where To lie in cold obstrution and to rot This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.
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You cannot make gross sins look clear: To revenge is no valour, but to bear.
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My liege, and madam, to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time, Were nothing but to waste night, day and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.
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The time of universal peace is near. Prove this a prosp'rous day, the three-nooked world Shall bear the olive freely.
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How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?
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I long To hear the story of your life, which must Take the ear strangely.
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Conceal me what I am, and be my aid for such disguise as haply shall become the form of my intent.
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Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.
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