Quote

And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world! Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once That makes ingrateful man!

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
World
Strike
Mould
Thick
Spills
Strikes
Crack
Thou
Shaking
Vaunt
Destruction
Thunder
Moulds
Makes
Flat
Thunderbolts
Nature
Flats
Lear
Men
Cracks
Spill

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The instruments of darkness tell us truths.
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Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word.
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Omission to do what is necessary Seals a commission to a blank of danger And danger, like an ague, subtly taints Even then when we sit idly in the sun.
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A light heart lives long.
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Love adds a precious seeing to the eye.
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In sooth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me, you say it wearies you But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.
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The error of our eye directs our mind. What error leads must err.
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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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Laughing faces do not mean that there is absence of sorrow! But it means that they have the ability to deal with it
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The last taste of sweets is sweetest last.
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Life... is a paradise to what we know of death.
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I once did hold it, as our statists do, A baseness to write fair, and labour'd much How to forget that learning but, sir, now It did me yeoman's service.
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Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?
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Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
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Justice always whirls in equal measure.
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Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Here's three on's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself unaccommodated man is no more than such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art.
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By being seldom seen, I could not stir But like a comet I was wondered at.
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GLOUCESTER: Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, As I had rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smother'd. But God be thanked. . . .
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There are a sort of men, whose visages Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond And do a willful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dressed in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity profound conceit As who should say, I am sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!
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