Quote

Lord Polonius: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words. Lord Polonius: What is the matter, my lord? Hamlet: Between who? Lord Polonius: I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.

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
Hamlet
Lord
Read
Words
Matter
Mean
Polonius

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I cannot, nor I will not hold me still My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.
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Farewell, fair cruelty.
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When thou cam'st first, Thou strok'st me and made much of me wouldst give me Water with berries in't and teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night and then I loved thee And showed thee all the qualities o' th' isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile.
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I shall despair. There is no creature loves me And if I die no soul will pity me: And wherefore should they, since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself?
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Let's teach ourselves that honorable stop, Not to outsport discretion.
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Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
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Now my charms are all o'erthrown.
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You speak like a green girl / unsifted in such perilous circumstances.
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For honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
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Love thyself last, cherish those hearts that hate thee Corruption wins not more than honesty.
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And, if you love me, as I think you do, let's kiss and part, for we have much to do
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Their lips were four red roses on a stalk.
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My prophecy is but half his journey yet, For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, Yon towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds, Must kiss their own feet.
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Because I cannot flatter and look fair, Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive, and cog, Duck with French nods and apish courtesy, I must be held a rancorous enemy.
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I cannot but remember such things were that were most precious to me.
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How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
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What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish a very ancient and fishlike smell a kind of not of the newest poor-John. A strange fish!
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O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell
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And thence from Athens turn away our eyes To seek new friends and stranger companies.
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