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Well, God give them wisdom that have it and those that are fools, let them use their talents.
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
Giving
Fools
Fool
Talent
Wisdom
Use
Give
Wells
Well
Talents
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Then imitate the action of the tiger stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.
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We are not ourselves When nature, being oppressed, commands the mind To suffer with the body.
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Death rock me asleep.
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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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You are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any.
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As you are old and reverend, you should be wise.
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All dark and comfortless.
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Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.
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Now, neighbor confines, purge you of your scum! Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance, revel the night, rob, murder, and commit the oldest sins the newest kind of ways?
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Scratching could not make it worse, an't were such a face as yours were.
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If there be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we are married and have more occasion to know one another: I hope, upon familiarity will grow more contempt.
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Base is the slave that pays.
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A good wit will make use of anything.
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Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
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It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
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Corruption wins not more than honesty.
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An overflow of good converts to bad.
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This rough magic I here abjure and when I have required some heavenly music, which even now I do, to work mine end upon their senses that this airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book.
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Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And tune his merry note, Unto the sweet bird's throat Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.
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