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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, his acts being seven ages.

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
Play
Seven
Ages
Many
Civilization
Birthday
Men
Player
Plays
Time
Stage
Acts
World
Literature
Players
Exits
Age
Theatre
Sonnet
Actors
Parts
Entrances
Women
Merely
Exit

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I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster but I'll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me he shall never make me such a fool.
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Rumor is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.
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Lend less than you owe.
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No legacy is so rich as honesty.
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In a false quarrel there is no true valor.
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All thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test here, afore heaven, I ratify this my rich gift.
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There is a law in each well-ordered nation To curb those raging appetites that are Most disobedient and refractory.
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We are such stuff that dreams are made of.
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Thou ominous and fearful owl of death.
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The heart hath treble wrong When it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue.
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What a fool honesty is.
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And send him many years of sunshine days!
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I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
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Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O any thing, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
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These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite. Therefore love moderately long love doth so Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
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I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes—and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle’s.
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Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more Or close the wall with our English dead.
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The earth, that is nature's mother, is her tomb.
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I have heard it said There is an art which in their piedness shares With great creating nature.
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It is a wise father that knows his own child.
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