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Mechanic slaves With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall Uplift us to the view.
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
Rules
Greasy
View
Uplift
Views
Hammers
Shall
Mechanic
Uplifting
Slaves
Slavery
Slave
Aprons
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Hear me profess sincerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather have eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.
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Let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them.
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I myself am best When least in company.
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I see a man's life is a tedious one.
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A happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story
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So are you to my thoughts as food to life, or as sweet seasoned showers are to the ground.
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Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.
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Foul whisperings are abroad
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Rumor is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.
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Take no repulse, whatever she doth say For 'get you gone,' she doth not mean 'away.' Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces
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... the spring, the summer, The chilling autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries and the mazed world By their increase, now knows not which is which.
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Ay, but hearken, sir though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat.
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You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you And here remain with your uncertainty!
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Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.
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I can counterfeit the deep tragedian Speak and look back, and pry on every side, Tremble and start, at wagging of a straw, Intending deep suspicion.
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Dost thou love hawking? Thou hast hawks will soar Above the morning lark.
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How many a holy and obsequious tear hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye, as interest of the dead!
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Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound And through this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
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Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
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As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown.
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