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To be in anger is impiety, but who is man that is not angry?
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
Impiety
Anger
Angry
Men
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Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane, Drink off this potion!
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What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.
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Is she kind as she is fair?
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O Lord that lends me life, Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness!
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O teach me how I should forget to think (1.1.224)
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We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail.
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There's an old saying that applies to me: you can't lose a game if you don't play the game. (Act 1, scene 4)
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My heart is ever at your service.
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That is the way to lay the city flat, To bring the roof to the foundation, And bury all, which yet distinctly ranges, In heaps and piles of ruin.
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Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light
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Man, proud man, drest in a little brief authority, most ignorant of what he's most assur d, glassy essence, like an angry ape, plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, as make the angels weep.
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But I will be, A bridegroom in my death, and run into't As to a lover's bed.
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With this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature. for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature.
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Virtue's office never breaks men's troth.
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Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth. O these deliberate fools!
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All hoods make not monks.
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Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.
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Thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd, Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower, With ravishing division, to her lute.
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My rage is gone, And I am struck with sorrow. Take him up. Help, three o' th' chiefest soldiers I'll be one. Beat thou the drum, that it speaks mournfully, Trail your steel spikes. Though in this city he Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, Which to this hour bewail the injury, Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist.
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