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A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us His dew falls everywhere.
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
Fall
Fruitful
Hands
Dew
Feeds
Falls
Charity
Everywhere
Land
Hand
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A hit, a very palpable hit.
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To weep is to make less the depth of grief.
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I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered.
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Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
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And Caesar shall go forth.
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I have almost forgotten the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool’d to hear a night-shriek and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in’t: I have supt full with horrors Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, cannot once start me.
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Honesty is not the best policy - merely the safest
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I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart: but the saying is true 'The empty vessel makes the greatest sound'.
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Nothing routs us but the villainy of our fears.
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Contention, like a horse, Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose, And bears down all before him.
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When lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner
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A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain.
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Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.
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O father Abram, what these Christians are, Whose own hard dealing teaches them suspect The thoughts of others!
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I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.
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Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, Nor age so eat up my invention, Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends, But they shall find awaked in such a kind Both strength of limb and policy of mind, Ability in means, and choice of friends, To quit me of them throughly.
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Alas, I am a woman friendless, hopeless!
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I'll make death love me for I will contend Even with his pestilent scythe.
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My charity is outrage, life my shame And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!
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Promising is the very air o' the time it opens the eyes of expectation.
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