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And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

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
Life
Books
Adversity
Tongues
Natural
Environmental
Brooks
Running
Tongue
Sermons
Nature
Rivers
Retiring
Earth
Stones
Retirement
Everything
Tree
Wilderness
Venomous
Book
Environment
Finds
Exempt
Good
Public
Trees
Haunt

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You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.
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Two women placed together makes cold weather.
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The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape, In forms imaginary, th' unguided days And rotten times that you shall look upon When I am sleeping with my ancestors.
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Give thanks for what you are today and go on fighting for what you gone be tomorrow
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Men prize the thing ungained more than it is.
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Look on beauty, And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight, Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it.
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That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
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There is a tide in the affairs of men
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No profit grows where no pleasure is taken.
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Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand.
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Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit All with me's meet that I can fashion fit.
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And how his audit stands who knows, save Heaven?
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This man, lady, hath robb'd many beasts of their particular additions: he is as valiant as a lion, churlish as the bear, slow as the elephant-a man into whom nature hath so crowded humours that his valour is crush'd into folly, his folly sauced with discretion.
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So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.
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Scorn, at first, makes after-love the more.
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Forever, and forever, farewell, Cassius! If we do meet again, why, we shall smile If not, why then this parting was well made.
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Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile.
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