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Despair and die. The ghosts

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
Ghosts
Ghost
Despair
Dies

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To do a great right do a little wrong.
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That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.
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Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
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The soul of this man is his clothes.
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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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I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide. Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause But rather reason thus with reason fetter, Love sought is good, but given unsought better.
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To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.
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Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affection, Figures pedantical--these summer flies Have blown me full of maggot ostentation.
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Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash ’tis something, nothing ’twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.
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Woe to that land that's governed by a child.
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For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as tie heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me!
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There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.
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We may outrun By violent swiftness And lose by over-running.
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This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.
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Though men can cover crimes with bold, stern looks, poor women's faces are their own faults' books.
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As a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honorable than the bare brow of a bachelor.
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Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh And sees fast-by a butcher with an axe, But will suspect 'twas he that made the slaughter?
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Words spoken can not be recalled so think twice before you speak.
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