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I would there were no age between sixteen and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting

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
Age
Stealing
Fighting
Twenty
Three
Twenties
Nothing
Youth
Children
Rest
Wronging
Would
Sleep
Wenches
Child
Sixteen
Getting
Adolescence

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O, the difference of man and man! To thee a woman's services are due.
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Poor Desdemona! I am glad thy father's dead. Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain.
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Make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
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Death is a fearful thing.
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So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
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Hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig.
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Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't.
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Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog.
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Where is your ancient courage? You were used to say extremities was the trier of spirits That common chances common men could bear That when the sea was calm all boats alike showed mastership in floating.
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Wisdom and fortune combating together, If that the former dare but what it can, No chance may shake it.
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I thank you all and here dismiss you all, and to the love and favor of my country commit myself, my person, and the cause.
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A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity but you gods will give us Some faults to make us men.
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The tempter or the tempted, who sins most? Ha! Not she: nor doth she tempt: but it is I That, lying by the violet in the sun, Do as the carrion does, not as the flower, Corrupt with virtuous season.
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Good morrow, fair ones pray you, if you know, Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive trees?
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Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin's fee.
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Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
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