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They lie deadly that tell you have good faces.

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
Deadly
Lying
Faces
Tell
Good

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Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it Without a prompter.
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Let gentleness my strong enforcement be.
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Strikes deeper, grows with more pernicious root.
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'Tis brief, my lord...as woman's love.
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Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon as done.
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Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.
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Full many a glorious morn I have seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy.
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Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
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It provokes the desire but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him and it mars him it sets him on and it takes him off.
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Graze on my lips and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
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But as the unthought-on accident is guilty To what we wildly do, so we profess Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies Of every wind that blows.
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Fie, fie upon her! There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her body.
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The present eye praises the present object.
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I will be free, even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.
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When Caesar says, 'Do this', it is performed.
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The gates of monarchs Are arched so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun.
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Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lender's books, and defy the foul fiend.
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That but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We'ld jump the life to come.
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