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The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.
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
Destroy
Grief
Joy
Violence
Either
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Good fortune then! To make me blest or cursed'st among men.
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Tears water our growth.
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Cry havoc! and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
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His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.
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There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distill it out.
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This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.
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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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Had it pleas'd heaven To try me with affliction * * * I should have found in some place of my soul A drop of patience.
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Villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man Snakes in my heart-blood warm'd, that sing my heart Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas.
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Comets importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky And with them scourge the bad revolting stars.
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We do not keep the outward form of order, where there is deep disorder in the mind.
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Let gentleness my strong enforcement be.
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To be in anger is impiety, but who is man that is not angry?
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Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man's pleasure.
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