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To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.
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
True
Thou
Playwright
Trueness
Character
Honesty
Straightforward
Polonius
Self
Integrity
Graduation
Ophelia
Must
Follow
Authenticity
Horatio
Men
Honor
Reputation
Canst
Lying
Ethics
Day
Inspirational
False
Sonnet
Night
Genuine
Thine
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His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. He is indeed a horse.
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Forget, forgive conclude, and be agreed.
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Discuss unto me: art thou officer, Or art thou base, common, and popular?
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And thence from Athens turn away our eyes To seek new friends and stranger companies.
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Prosperity's the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters.
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Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud And after summer evermore succeeds Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold: So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.
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My love is thaw'd Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was
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But virtue never will be mov'd, Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven.
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When I waked, I cried to dream again
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O, let him pass. He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.
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Pride went before, ambition follows him.
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See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
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Ships are but boards, sailors but men.
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If I for my opinion bleed, opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt, and keep me on the side where still I am.
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Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I ha' lost my reputation, I ha' lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial!
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Gold--what can it not do, and undo?
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For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
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The pow'r that I have on you is to spare you The malice towards you to forgive you.
William Shakespeare
Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, where manners ne'er were preached.
William Shakespeare
And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
William Shakespeare
