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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
Hue
Lily
Lilies
Refined
Excess
Ridiculous
Paint
Gild
Gold
Wasteful
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You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant But yet you draw not iron, for my heart Is true as steel: leave you your power to draw, And I shall have no power to follow you.
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My heart is turned to stone I strike it, and it hurts my hand.
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A sentence is but a cheveril glove to a good wit How quickly the wrong side may be turned outward!
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thy wit is a very bitter sweeting it is a most sharp sauce.
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You are not wood, you are not stones, but men And being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad.
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But since the affairs of men rests still incertain, Let's reason with the worst that may befall.
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It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
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How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
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O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle.
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Out, you tallow-face! You baggage!
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What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time?
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'Tis pride that pulls the country down.
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Extremity is the trier of spirits.
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Her virtues, graced with external gifts, Do breed love's settled passions in my heart And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So am I driven by breath of her renown Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive Where I may have fruition of her love.
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Though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe
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Refrain to-night And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence, the next more easy For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And either master the devil or throw him out With wondrous potency.
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We cannot all be masters.
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This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, Liege of all loiterers and malcontents.
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I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.
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