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To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.
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
Dies
Death
Dream
May
Perchance
Come
Halloween
Dying
Dreams
Sleep
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Full fathom five thy father lies
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Music, moody food Of us that trade in love.
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Thus may poor fools Belive false teachers.
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Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.
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This is a way to kill a wife with kindness.
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Let me confess that we two must be twain, although our undivided loves are one.
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All is well ended if this suit be won. That you express content which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day.
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Sweet love! Sweet lines! Sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn
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Come now, what masques, what dances shall we have To wear away this long age of three hours Between our after-supper and bedtime?
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If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, By self-example mayst thou be denied.
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Ask God for temp'rance. That's th' appliance only Which your disease requires.
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I am falser than vows made in wine.
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For this relief, much thanks
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Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.
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That strain again! It had a dying fall: O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour! Enough no more: 'Tis not so sweet as it was before.
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For conspiracy, I know not how it tastes, though it be dished For me to try how.
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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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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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