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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.
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
Hearing
Stones
Feelings
Inflame
Make
Incitement
Men
Caesar
Wood
Mad
Woods
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It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on't.
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Virtue's office never breaks men's troth.
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Why, i' faith, methinks she's too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little for a great praise: only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome and being no other but as she is, I do not like her. (Benedick, from Much Ado About Nothing)
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Every man has business and desire, Such as it is.
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The dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.
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They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.
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There is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with woman than report of valor.
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Why, all delights are vain but that most vain, Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain.
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He took the bride about the neck and kissed her lips with such a clamorous smack that at the parting all the church did echo.
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The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.
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Let's teach ourselves that honorable stop, Not to outsport discretion.
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What a deformed thief this fashion is.
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Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime...
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Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.
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You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.
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For I am fresh of spirit, and resolved To meet all perils very constantly.
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The sense of death is most in apprehension.
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Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace.
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Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat Of habits devil, is angel yet in this.
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We have some salt of our youth in us.
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