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How slow This old moon wanes! she lingers my desires, Like to a stepdame, or a dowager, Long withering out a young man's revenue.
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
Moon
Desire
Dowager
Young
Wanes
Long
Lingers
Men
Withering
Like
Revenue
Desires
Slow
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What is past is prologue.
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O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
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The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
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Words to deeds cold breath gives.
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We will have rings and things and fine array
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When a gentlemen is disposed to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths.
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If it be aught toward the general good, Set honor in one eye and death i' th' other, And I will look on both indifferently For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honor more than I fear death.
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Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd, Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked, or charitable, Thou com'st in such a questionable shape, That I will speak to thee.
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Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind.
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To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.
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With these shreds They vented their complainings, which being answered And a petition granted them, a strange one, To break the heart of generosity, And make bold power look pale, they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation.
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The seeming truth which cunning times put on to entrap the wisest.
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I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercise.
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A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity but you gods will give us Some faults to make us men.
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Lay on, McDuff, and be damned he who first cries, 'Hold, enough!
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All that glisters is not gold Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.
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Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engend'red in the eyes, With gazing fed, and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies.
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