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Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, but thankful even for hate that is meant love.

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
Thankful
Meant
Proud
Hate
Even
Never
Love
Juliet

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Men so noble, However faulty, yet should find respect For what they have been: 'tis a cruelty To load a falling man.
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My wits begin to turn.
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But love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offense, Crying, 'That's good that's gone.
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Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.
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Love is a wonderful, terrible thing
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which.
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Plutus himself, That knows the tinct and multiplying med'cine, Hath not in nature's mystery more science Than I have in this ring.
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Women may fail when there is no strength in man
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O, she's warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.
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Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.
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Do all men kill the things they do not love?
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A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross.
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Thou weedy elf-skinned canker-blossom!
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You take my life when you do take the means whereby I live
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Come, go with us, speak fair you may salve so, Not what is dangerous present, but the los Of what is past.
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The weakest goes to the wall.
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Nimble thought can jump both sea and land.
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By a divine instinct, men's minds mistrust ensuing danger as, by proof, we see the waters swell before a boisterous storm.
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The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown, is often left unloved.
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