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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
Cross
Bolted
Crosses
Nimble
Deep
Stroke
Terrible
Strokes
Stand
Thunder

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Under loves heavy burden do I sink. --Romeo
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A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' th' forest, A motley fool! a miserable world! As I do live by food, I met a fool Who laid him down and basked him in the sun And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms, In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.
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Nay, we must think men are not gods, Nor of them look for such observancy As fits the bridal.
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Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business, Hath raised me from my bed nor doth the general care Take hold on me for my particular grief Is of so floodgate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself.
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What wouldst thou do, old man? Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak When power to flattery bows?
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Love's stories written in love's richest books. To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes.
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Bell, book and candle shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on.
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Truth hath a quiet breast.
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for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)
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Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliances are relieved, Or not at all.
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Reflection is the business of man a sense of his state is his first duty: but who remembereth himself in joy? Is it not in mercy then that sorrow is allotted unto us?
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So far be distant and good night, sweet friend: thy love ne'er alter, till they sweet life end
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O no, thy love though much, is not so great, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.
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Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.
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Appetite, a universal wolf.
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I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking: I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment.
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Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off ... Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust.
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He that hath the steerage of my course, Direct my sail.
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Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!
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Myself will straight aboard, and to the state This heavy act with heavy heart relate.
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