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To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder, In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick, cross lightning.

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
Dread
Lightning
Quick
Bolted
Cross
Nimble
Crosses
Stroke
Deep
Strokes
Terrible
Stand
Thunder

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Our jovial star reigned at his birth.
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O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
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Those, that with haste will make a mighty fire, Begin it with weak straws.
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For now they kill me with a living death.
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Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course.
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Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning One pain is less'ned by another's anguish Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning One desperate grief cures with another's languish.
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When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.
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You are not wood, you are not stones, but men And being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad.
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For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger At whose approach ghosts wandring here and there Troop home to church-yards.... For fear lest day should look their shames upon, They willfully exile themselves from light, And must for aye consort with black brow'd night.
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A lover goes toward his beloved as enthusiastically as a schoolboy leaving his books, but when he leaves his girlfriend, he feels as miserable as the schoolboy on his way to school. (Act 2, scene 2)
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Condemn the fault and not the actor of it?
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I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)
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She dreams of him that has forgot her love You dote on her that cares not for your love. 'Tis pity love should be so contrary And thinking of it makes me cry 'alas!
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I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways.
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...too much sadness hath congealed your blood,And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.
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Few love to hear the sins they love to act.
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Like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks.
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True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.
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Give me mine angle, we'll to th' river: there, My music playing far off, I will betray Tawny-finned fishes. My bended hook shall pierce Their slimy jaws and as I draw them up, I'll think them every one an Antony, And say, 'Ah, ha! are caught!'
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Whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise.
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