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Conscience is a thousand swords.
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
Swords
Conscience
Thousand
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In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.
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For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
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Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania
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Adieu! I have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave.
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Thy food is such As hath been belch'd on by infected lungs.
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Lay on, McDuff, and be damned he who first cries, 'Hold, enough!
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Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears: Look, when I vow, I weep and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?
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Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!
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These are the forgeries of jealousy And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.
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Men's evil manners live in brass their virtues we write in water.
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Now the fair goddess, Fortune, Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms Misguide thy opposers' swords!
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Every cloud engenders not a storm.
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Though I am not naturally honest, I am sometimes so by chance.
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A very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience.
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Frailty, thy name is woman!
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He that commends me to mine own content Commends me to the thing I cannot get. I to the world am like a drop of water That in the ocean seeks another drop, Who, falling there to find his fellow forth, Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself: So I, to find a mother and a brother, In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.
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When workmen strive to do better than well, they do confound their skill in covetousness.
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If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.
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Macbeth to Witches: What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, And yet are on 't?
William Shakespeare
