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I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquillity.

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
Staff
Foot
Mad
Strikers
None
Tranquillity
Land
Hilarious
Long
Nobility
Joined
Purple

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It is not vain glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber.
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My grief lies all within, And these external manners of lament Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swells with silence in the tortured soul.
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Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge.
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In a false quarrel there is no true valor.
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Upon his royal face there is no note how dread an army hath enrounded him.
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Sweet are the uses of adversity
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I do begin to have bloody thoughts.
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He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace and fear: And you all know, security Is mortals' chiefest enemy.
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you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself pois'd with herself in either eye But in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd Your lady's love against some other maid That I will show you shining at this feast, And she shall scant show well that now seems best.
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I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.
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in black ink my love may still shine bright.
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This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.
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He took the bride about the neck and kissed her lips with such a clamorous smack that at the parting all the church did echo.
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Well could he ride, and often men would say, That horse his mettle from his rider takes: Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes! And controversy hence a question takes, Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manage by the well-doing steed.
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Fishes live in the sea, as men do a-land the great ones eat up the little ones.
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It is a heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in it.
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Farewell! a long farewell to all my greatness!
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Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
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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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You speak an infinite deal of nothing.
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