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Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.
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
Fate
Brutus
Masters
Cassius
Stars
Fates
Men
Julius
Time
Sonnet
Life
Fault
Faults
Dear
Underlings
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Value dwells not in particular will It holds his estimate and dignity As well wherein 'tis precious of itself As in the prizer.
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But pearls are fair and the old saying is: Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes.
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We will meet and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously.
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What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
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Who seeks, and will not take, when once 'tis offer'd, Shall never find it more.
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ROMEO There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison thou hast sold me none. Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave for there must I use thee.
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Let the galled jade wince our withers are unwrung.
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I dreamt my lady came and found me dead . . . . . . . . . . . . And breathed such life with kisses in my lips That I revived and was an emperor.
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A plague on both your houses.
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I am not mad I would to heaven I were! For then, 'tis like I should forget myself O, if I could, what grief should I forget!
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Away, you mouldy rogue, away!
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Some there be that shadows kiss Such have but a shadow's bliss.
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Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle.
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Who is it can read a woman?
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That affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.
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Nothing is so common as the wish to be remarkable.(attributed to)
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Like a dull actor now, I have forgot my part, and I am out, Even to a full disgrace.
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Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish her election, Sh'ath sealed thee for herself.
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Beware the ides of March.
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Melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.
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