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I hold my peace, sir? no No, I will speak as liberal as the north Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.

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
Shame
Cry
Devil
Hold
Heaven
Peace
Devils
Speak
Liberal
Men
North

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It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing.
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Full many a lady I have eyed with best regard, and many a time Th' harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear for several virtues Have I liked several women never any With so full soul but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed, And put it to the foil.
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No evil lost is wailed when it is gone.
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We will all laugh at gilded butterflies.
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Though now this grained face of mine be hid In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow, And all the conduits of my blood froze up, Yet hath my night of life some memory, My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, My dull deaf ears a little use to hear.
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If she lives till doomsday, she'll burn a week longer than the whole world.
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Tis the mind that makes the body rich.
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Conversation should be pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, free without indecency, learned without conceitedness, novel without falsehood.
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I dote on his very absence.
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That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)
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Soft pity enters an iron gate.
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The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Shall come again, transform'd to orient pearl, Advantaging their loan with interest Of ten times double gain of happiness.
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Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?
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The language I have learnt these forty years, My native English, now I must forgo And now my tongue's use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp, Or like a cunning instrument cased up Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony.
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I feel within me a peace above all earthly dignities, a still and quiet conscience.
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So full of shapes is fancy That it alone is high fantastical.
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
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Here was a Caesar! When comes such another?
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