submitted by photoquoteography.
Posted 1 year ago
Merciful heaven,
Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt
Splits the unwedgeable and gnarlèd oak
Than the soft myrtle; but man, proud man,
Dress’d in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he’s most assur’d—
His glassy essence—like an angry ape
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As makes the angels weep; who, with our spleens,
Would all themselves laugh mortal.
Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt
Splits the unwedgeable and gnarlèd oak
Than the soft myrtle; but man, proud man,
Dress’d in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he’s most assur’d—
His glassy essence—like an angry ape
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As makes the angels weep; who, with our spleens,
Would all themselves laugh mortal.
Isabella
Measure for Measure (II,ii,114-123)
Posted 1 year ago
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar.
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar.
Marcus Antonius
Julius Caesar (III,ii,74-77)
Posted 1 year ago
When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o’ th’ sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that.
A wave o’ th’ sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that.
Frorizel
The Winter’s Tale (IV,iv,159-161)
Posted 1 year ago
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch
Against whose charms faith melteth in blood.
And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch
Against whose charms faith melteth in blood.
Claudio
Much Ado About Nothing II,i,178-180)
Posted 1 year ago
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man’s son doth know.
Every wise man’s son doth know.
Feste
Twelfth Night (II,iii,44-45)
Posted 1 year ago
Titus Andronicus by William Shakespeare
Revenge is a dish best served with your loved ones in a pie.
Posted 1 year ago
Sonnet CXXI
‘Tis better to be vile than vile esteem’d,
When not to be receives reproach of being;
And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem’d
Not by our feeling, but by others’ seeing:
For why should others’ false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
No, I am that I am, and they that level
At my abuses reckon up their own:
I may be straight though they themselves be bevel;
By their rank…
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