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Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affection, Figures pedantical--these summer flies Have blown me full of maggot ostentation.

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
Figures
Ostentation
Terms
Piled
Full
Blown
Term
Flies
Spruce
Three
Precise
Maggot
Phrases
Silken
Affection
Hyperbole
Summer
Maggots

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I cannot do it without comp[u]ters.
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GLOUCESTER: I do not know that Englishman alive With whom my soul is any jot at odds, More than the infant that is born to-night: I thank my God for my humility.
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Men that hazard all Do it in hope of fair advantages: A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross.
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Wise men never sit and wail their loss, but cheerily seek how to redress their harms.
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For man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.
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Time ... thou ceaseless lackey to eternity.
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I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so, because I think him so.
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Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Here's three on's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself unaccommodated man is no more than such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art.
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First Witch He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou nought.
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In time we hate that which we often fear.
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If there were reason for these miseries, then into limits could I bind my woes. If the winds rages, doth not the sea wax mad, threat'ning the welkin with its big-swoll'n face? And wilt though have a reason for this coil? I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth blow. She is the weeping welkin, I the earth.
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Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.
William Shakespeare
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At this hour Lie at my mercy all mine enemies.
William Shakespeare
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To you your father should be as a god One that composed your beauties, yea, and one To whom you are but as a form in wax, By him imprinted, and within his power To leave the figure or disfigure it.
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The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.
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Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him.
William Shakespeare
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For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings... All murdered for within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king, keeps Death his court... and with a little pin bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!
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God send everyone their heart's desire!
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Base is the slave that pays.
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Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
William Shakespeare