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How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.
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
Seasons
Waste
Taste
Water
Away
Doth
Much
Salt
Love
Season
Thrown
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The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the razor's edge invisible.
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Better three hours too soon, than one hour to late.
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Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
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What, shall one of us, That struck for the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers--shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
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The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.
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No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. But I know none, and therefore am no beast.
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a wild dedication of yourselves To undiscovered waters, undreamed shores.
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A good old man, sir. He will be talking. As they say, when the age is in, the wit is out.
William Shakespeare
Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, have yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltiness of time.
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The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony.
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Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter!
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The day shall not be up so soon as I, To try the fair adventure of tomorrow.
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When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
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Let us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, Our children, and our sins, lay on the King!
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Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
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Thou ominous and fearful owl of death.
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O, where is loyalty? If it be banished from the frosty head, Where shall it find a harbor in the earth?
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I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.(IAGO,ActI,SceneI)
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What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye
William Shakespeare
Unquiet meals make ill digestions.
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