Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds error,
Now take upon me, in the name of Time,
To use my wings.'
William Shakespeare. The Winter's Tale
Nor marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of prices, shall outlive this powerful rhymes;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmeaer'd with sluttish time
Lady Macbeth:
How now, my lord, why do your keep alone,
Of sorriest fancies your companions making,
Using those thoughts which should indeed have died
With them they think on? Things without all remedy
Should be without regards: what's done, is gone
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Pot, out, brief candle!
Life but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing
The City of London, Guildhall Library and
the Guildhall School of Music & Drama on 4 & 5 March 2016 hosted light and sound
production to celebrate the 400th
anniversary of the death of William Shakespeare.
The historic façade of Guildhall will be brought to
life with 3D projection mapping technology and a special music composition by
the Guildhall School of Music & Drama.
Lord, what
fools these mortals be! (A Midsummer Night’s dream)
All the world
‘s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and
their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts.
Now is the winter of our
discontent.(Richard III)
Nor marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of prices, shall outlive this powerful rhymes;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone, besmeaer'd with sluttish time
Men at some
time are masters of their fates:
The fault, dear
Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in
ourselves, that we are underlings.
Lady Macbeth:
How now, my lord, why do your keep alone,
Of sorriest fancies your companions making,
Using those thoughts which should indeed have died
With them they think on? Things without all remedy
Should be without regards: what's done, is gone
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Pot, out, brief candle!
Life but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing
William Shakespeare Quotes
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