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Happy thou art not for what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get and what thou hast, forgettest.

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
Still
Hast
Thou
Happy
Art
Stills

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LEONATO Neighbours, you are tedious. DOGBERRY It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor duke's officers but truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find it in my heart to bestow it all of your worship.
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Sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue.
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So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men.
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You take my life when you do take the means whereby I live
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The cunning livery of hell.
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The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman and to be King Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor.
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The past is prologue.
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Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.
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Divers philosophers hold that the lips is parcel of the mouth.
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Do not for one repulse, forego the purpose That you resolved to effect.
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I cannot but remember such things were that were most precious to me.
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My crown is in my heart, not on my head not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, nor to be seen: my crown is called content, a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.
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That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave, Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.
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Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.
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Oh why rebuke you him that loves you so? / Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.
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Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments: love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds.
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If she be not honest, chaste, and true, there's no man happy.
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Rashly, And praised be rashness for it--let us know, Our indiscretion sometime serves us well When our deep plots do pall, and that should learn us There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will
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Every why hath a wherefore.
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People’s good deeds we write in water. The evil deeds are etched in brass.
William Shakespeare