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true apothecary thy drugs art quick

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
Apothecary
Quick
Drugs
Drug
Art
True

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With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine, than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
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Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity In least speak most, to my capacity.
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He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
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Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, To make my end too sudden.
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It is a good divine that follows his own instructions.
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If it be honor in your wars to seem The same you are not,--which, for your best ends, You adopt your policy--how is it less or worse, That it shall hold companionship in peace With honour, as in war: since that to both It stands in like request?
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What should we speak of When we are old as you? when we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December? how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse The freezing hours away?
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I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incensed that I am reckless what I do to spite the world.
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Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow. Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, And put sullen black incontinent. I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. March sadly after. Grace my mournings here In weeping after this untimely bier.
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Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor for 'tis the mind that makes the body rich
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So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.
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A fool's bolt is soon shot.
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I humbly do beseech of your pardon, For too much loving you
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The patient must minister to himself
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I am afeard there are few die well that die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument?
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O Ceremony, show me but thy worth? What is thy soul of adoration? Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form, Creating awe and fear in other men?
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I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.
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I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching.
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They are in the very wrath of love, and they will go together. Clubs cannot part them
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Guiltiness will speak, though tongues were out of use
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