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What's done can't be undone.

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
Done
Undone

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O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
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Now the fair goddess, Fortune, Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms Misguide thy opposers' swords!
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I would there were no age between sixteen and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting
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Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law 'twill hardly come out.
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Trust not your daughter's minds By what you see them act.
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God mark thee to His grace! Thou was the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed. And might I live to see thee married once, I have my wish.
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There should be hours for necessities, not for delights times to repair our nature with comforting repose, and not for us to waste these times.
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I would with such perfection govern, sir, T'excel the golden age.
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Now my charms are all o'erthrown.
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Then love-devouring Death do what he dare.
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Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.
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Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done is done.
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You take my life when you do take the means whereby I live
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This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.
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But jealous souls will not be answered so, They are not ever jealous for the cause, But jealous for they're jealous. 'Tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself.
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Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror
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Men of few words are the best men. (3.2.41)
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Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation
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Do not spread the compost on the weeds.
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Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds.
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