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To gild refined gold, to paint the lily... is wasteful and ridiculous excess
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
Ridiculous
Paint
Gild
Gold
Wasteful
Hue
Lily
Lilies
Refined
Excess
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Brevity is the soul of wit.
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Hear the meaning within the word.
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Through tattered clothes great vices do appear Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.
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For they are yet ear-kissing arguments.
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Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.
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If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?
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I have sounded the very base-string of humility.
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I see, sir, you are liberal in offers. You taught me first to beg, and now methinks You teach me how a beggar should be answered.
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I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.
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To die: - to sleep: No more and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished.
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I that please some, try all, both joy and terror Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds error.
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Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses both itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
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I despised my arrival on this earth and I despise my departure it is a tragedy.
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What's brave, what's noble, let's do it after the Roman fashion.
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And when love speaks, the voice of all the gods makes Heaven drowsy with the harmony.
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To some kind of men their graces serve them but as enemies.
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If I lose my honor, I lose myself: better I were not yours Than yours so branchless.
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Thou call'st me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.
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Yet but three come one more. Two of both kinds make up four. Ere she comes curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad. Thus to make poor females mad.
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Love is too young to know what conscience is.
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