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But now behold, In the quick forge and working-house of thought, How London doth pour out her citizens!
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
Thought
Pour
Behold
Doth
Quick
London
Citizens
Working
House
Forge
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What e'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time.
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Still constant is a wondrous excellence.
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Read o'er this And after, this, and then to breakfast with What appetite you have.
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So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.
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And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence
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If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottage princes' palaces.
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It is a wise father that knows his own child.
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I hold it cowardice To rest mistrustful where a noble heart Hath pawned an open hand in sign of love.
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Great men may jest with saints 'tis wit in them But, in the less foul profanation.
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Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
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Why, this hath not a finger's dignity.
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Against ill chances men are ever merry, But heaviness foreruns the good event.
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My father names me Autolycus, who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.
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Let him smell his way to Dover!
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I was a coward on instinct.
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Graze on my lips and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
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I heard a bustling rumor like a fray, And the wind blows it from the Capitol.
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O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!
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Men's evil manners live in brass their virtues we write in water.
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Grief best is pleased with grief's society.
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