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Supposition all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes For treason is but trusted like the fox, Who, ne'er so tame, so cherished and locked up, Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.
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
Lives
Locked
Tame
Like
Tricks
Cherished
Wild
Treason
Stuck
Foxes
Shall
Ancestors
Full
Ancestor
Eyes
Trick
Eye
Trusted
Supposition
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Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir.
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Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
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Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
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... I am At war 'twixt will and will not.
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I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.
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For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give.
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I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot Follow your spirit: and upon this charge, Cry — God for Harry! England and Saint George!
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Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry
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Fair ladies, masked, are roses in their bud Dismasked, the damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.
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Men at sometime are the masters of their fate.
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A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.
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You must not think That we are made of stuff so fat and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger And think it pastime.
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Grief hath two tongues and never woman yet Could rule them both without ten women's wit.
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Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger
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All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral-- Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse And all things change them to the contrary.
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Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.
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My falcon now is sharp and passing empty, and till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, for then she never looks upon her lure.
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My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish'd this world's eternity.
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Life is as tedious as twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
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Sometimes when we are labeled, when we are branded our brand becomes our calling.
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