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And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?
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
Mortal
Mortals
Suffer
Thou
Worshippers
Grief
Griefs
Suffering
Idol
Art
Ceremony
Kind
Idols
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The rest, is silence.
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A Devil, a born Devil on whose nature, nurture can never stick, on whom my pain, humanly taken, all lost, quite lost.
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And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.
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What e'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time.
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Fondling,' she saith, 'since I have hemm'd thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale: Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
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When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.
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My endeavors Have ever come too short of my desires. Yet filed with my abilities.
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If the masses can love without knowing why, they also hate without much foundation.
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The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.
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Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .
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[Marriage is] a world-without-end bargain.
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There's no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand.
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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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