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If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?

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
Dies
Venice
Wrong
Organs
Poison
Jew
Shylock
Revenge
Tickling
Laugh
Tickle
Laughing
Bleed
Shall
Merchants

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Send danger from the east unto the west, so honor cross it from the north to south.
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In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.
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The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack: the round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens.
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Never anger made good guard for itself.
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Like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his own lie.
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Great griefs medicine the less.
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Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow. Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, And put sullen black incontinent. I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. March sadly after. Grace my mournings here In weeping after this untimely bier.
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But Kate, dost thou understand thus much English? Canst thou love me? Catherine: I cannot tell. Henry: Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? I'll ask them.
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True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.
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for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.
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I had as lief have been myself alone.
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O, spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
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Who would be so mocked with glory, or to live But in a dream of friendship, To have his pomp and all what state compounds But only painted, like his varnished friends?
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Pastime passing excellent, if it he husbanded with modesty.
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Retire me to my Milan, where Every third thought shall be my grave.
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By being seldom seen, I could not stir But like a comet I was wondered at.
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We must love men, ere to us they will seem worthy of our love.
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I cannot do it without comp[u]ters.
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Inconstancy falls off ere it begins.
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