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O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors.
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
Men
Lucifer
Princes
Hangs
Wretched
Favors
Poor
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Pastime passing excellent, if it he husbanded with modesty.
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The insolence of office.
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Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lies in sweetest bud. All men make faults.
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Covering discretion with a coat of folly.
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A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.
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Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.
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If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
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Through tattered clothes, small vices do appear. Robes and furred gowns hide all.
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Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?
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Men must learn now with pity to dispense For policy sits above conscience.
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My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears, Two traded pilots 'twixt the dangerous shores Of will and judgment.
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But indeed an old religious uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard him read many lectures against it and I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched with so many giddy offenses as he hath generally taxed their whole sex withal.
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We may outrun By violent swiftness And lose by over-running.
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Why, all delights are vain, but that most vain Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain: As, painfully to pore upon a book, To seek the light of truth, which truth the while Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look.
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There is a river in Macedon, and there is moreover a river in Monmouth. It is called Wye at Monmouth, but it is out of my prains what is the name of the other river but 'tis all one, 'tis alike as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in both.
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Gold--what can it not do, and undo?
William Shakespeare
What a deformed thief this fashion is.
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Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
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There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.
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Bell, book and candle shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on.
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