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

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That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave, Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.
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When lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner
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I would give all of my fame for a pot of ale and safety.
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He knows what it's like to strut and fret his hour upon the stage and then be heard no more.
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At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth But like of each thing that in season grows.
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Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.
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When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men for thus sings he, Cuckoo Cuckoo, cuckoo O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.
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Two households, both alike in dignity In fair Verona, where we lay our scene From ancient grudge break to new mutiny Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life Whose misadventured piteous overthrows Do with their death bury their parents' strife.
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Sorrow, like a heavy ringing bell, once set on ringing, with its own weight goes then little strength rings out the doleful knell.
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I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad and to travel for it too!
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Well, God's above all and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.
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Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.
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When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.
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If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark
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Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
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Sweetest nut hath sourest rind.
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Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.
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