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I am disgraced, impeached, and baffled here, Pierced to the soul with slander's venomed spear.
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
Spear
Pierced
Baffled
Spears
Slander
Politics
Soul
Impeached
Disgraced
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It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover.
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April ... hath put a spirit of youth in everything.
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Oh, that way madness lies let me shun that.
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But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
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Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze by the sweet power of music.
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So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
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My heart is turned to stone I strike it, and it hurts my hand.
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For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
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How much an ill word may empoison liking!
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Why, this hath not a finger's dignity.
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He that is thy friend indeed, He will help thee in thy need: If thou sorrow, he will weep If thou wake, he cannot sleep: Thus of every grief in heart He with thee does bear a part. These are certain signs to know Faithful friend from flattering foe.
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Slanders, sir, for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging think amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams.
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They have a plentiful lack of wit.
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How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
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A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' th' forest, A motley fool! a miserable world! As I do live by food, I met a fool Who laid him down and basked him in the sun And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms, In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.
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I shall despair. There is no creature loves me And if I die no soul will pity me: And wherefore should they, since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself?
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Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
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There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee.
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Jesu, Jesu, the mad days that I have spent! And to see how many of my old acquaintance are dead!
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England is safe, if true within itself.
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