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If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul.
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
Sin
Honor
Coveting
Inspirational
Covet
Soul
Covetousness
Offending
Garments
Ethics
Integrity
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O tiger's heart wrapped in a woman's hide!
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I crave fit disposition for my wife Due reference of place, and exhibition With such accommodation, and besort, As levels with her breeding.
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Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments: love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds.
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How poor are they that have have not patients.
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So well thy words become thee as thy wounds.
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Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.
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It is the cowish terror of his spirit that dares not undertake he'll not feel wrongs which tie him to an answer.
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For now I stand as one upon a rock environed with a wilderness of sea, who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, expecting ever when some envious surge will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
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A man can die but once.
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To you your father should be as a god One that composed your beauties, yea, and one To whom you are but as a form in wax, By him imprinted, and within his power To leave the figure or disfigure it.
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The commonwealth of Athens is become a forest of beasts.
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It is not night when I do see your face, Therefore I think I am not in the night Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, For you in my respect are all the world: Then how can it be said I am alone, When all the world is here to look on me?
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I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in.
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Why, universal plodding poisons up The nimble spirits in the arteries, As motion and long-during action tires The sinewy vigor of the traveller.
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You have dancing shoes with nimble soles. I have a soul of lead.
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Ships are but boards, sailors but men.
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Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.
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Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.
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The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down.
William Shakespeare
