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Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.
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
Fighting
Heart
Kind
Would
Sleep
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A very ancient and fish-like smell.
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Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber.
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Present mirth hath present laughter. What's to come is still unsure.
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If the masses can love without knowing why, they also hate without much foundation.
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Mechanic slaves With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall Uplift us to the view.
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We are ready to try our fortunes to the last man.
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Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
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Tis in my memory lock'd, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.
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Why, i' faith, methinks she's too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little for a great praise: only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome and being no other but as she is, I do not like her. (Benedick, from Much Ado About Nothing)
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If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion.
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Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' th' season Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, Which some call nature's bastards.
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What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.
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And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love.
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Pause awhile, And let my counsel sway you.
William Shakespeare
A politician... one that would circumvent God.
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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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It is a sin to be a mocker.
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Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle I am no traitor's uncle, and that word grace In an ungracious mouth is but profane.
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Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
William Shakespeare
