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O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.

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
Dumb
Speaking
Books
Literature
Reading
Book
Eloquence
Breast
Breasts

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Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.
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Myself will straight aboard, and to the state This heavy act with heavy heart relate.
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If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.
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And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
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Men shut their doors against a setting sun.
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I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire, But qualify the fire's extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.
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You have but mistook me all the while... I live by bread like you, taste grief, feel want, need friends. Conditioned thus how can you call me king?
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O, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
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Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime...
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April ... hath put a spirit of youth in everything.
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O horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee!
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Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent.
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What the vengeance, could he not speak 'em fair?
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But now behold, In the quick forge and working-house of thought, How London doth pour out her citizens!
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Better be with the dead, Whom we to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy.
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The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows. They are polluted off'rings, more abhorred! Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.
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True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.
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It is the mind that makes the body rich and as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, so honor peereth in the meanest habit.
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