“ Thou art more lovely and more temperate” from Shakespeare’s sonnet 18, becomes TAGATGTGTACAGACTACGC.”
ROMEO & JULIET STREET ART
* continually see these ….anyone have a clue who’s behind this.
Jay, Joss Whedon does Shakespeare!
“ what the fuck hamlet”
what the fuck
I knew you were kind of a shitty guy
but what are you even doing
did you spend your vast royal inheritance on a dump truck
and then use all the time I was gone to fill it with your feces
and then at the appointed moment
release it over the heads of everyone I know and/or love?
THAT SEEMS LIKE WHAT YOU DID HAMLET
“ I happen to love - and I know a lot of people don’t - but I happen to love the works of William Shakespeare, the poet and playwright. I think that they are amongst the greatest things that humanity has ever done. Up there with the Pyramids, or whatever it is that you want to choose. But the number of times you hear people say, “Oh, it was ruined for me at school.” And I— I tend to say to them, “Yeah, I don’t really like the Grand Canyon, or the Lake District, or the mountains of Scotland, because I had a really bad geography teacher, so I don’t find them very beautiful”.”
What I Wish I’d Known When I Was 18 (via fuckyeahstephenfry)
Stephen, if you read this; contact me via ask and I will send you a Shirtspeare shirt of your choice!
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether ‘tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them: to die, to sleep
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Ay, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s Contumely,
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would Fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveller returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is sicklied o’er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their Currents turn awry,
And lose the name of Action.