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You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you And here remain with your uncertainty!

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
Whose
Prize
Dead
Uncertainty
Common
Breath
Hate
Breaths
Reek
Men
Loves
Carcasses
Remain
Banish
Cry
Rotten
Air
Corrupt

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If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.
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Ay beauty's princely majesty is such, Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.
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The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company.
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I am bewitched with the rogue's company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I'll be hanged.
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Mine honor is my life, both grow in one. Take honor from me, and my life is done. Then, dear my liege, mine honor let me try In that I live, and for that I will die.
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Be stirring as the time be fire with fire. Threaten the threat'ner, and outface the brow Of bragging horror. So shall inferior eyes, That borrow their behaviors from the great, Grow great by your example and put on The dauntless spirit of resolution.
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Honesty is the best policy. If I lose mine honor, I lose myself.
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Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.
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A king of infinite space
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That is my home of love: if I have ranged, Like him that travels I return again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged.
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Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny. It hath been Th' untimely emptying of the happy throne And fall of many kings.
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When love begins to sicken and decay it uses an enforced ceremony.
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What made me love thee? let that persuade thee, there's something extraordinary in thee
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Die for adultery! No: The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight
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Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
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O world, world! thus is the poor agent despised. O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavor be so loved, and the performance so loathed?
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Demetrius: Villain, what hast thou done? Aaron: That which thou canst not undo. Chiron: Thou hast undone our mother. Aaron: Villain, I have done thy mother.
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O sir, you are old nature in you stands on the very verge of her confine you should be ruled and led by some discretion, that discerns your fate better than you yourself.
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