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The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.
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
Pale
Sun
Moon
Fire
Arrant
Snatches
Thief
Thieves
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Still constant is a wondrous excellence.
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Now is the winter of our discontent.
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And the more pity that great folk should have count'nance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even-Christen.
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O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
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Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
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O, she's warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.
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One pain is lessened by another's anguish.
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We must not stint Our necessary actions in the fear To cope malicious censurers, which ever, As rav'nous fishes, do a vessel follow That is new-trimmed, but benefit no further Than vainly longing.
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To be once in doubt Is once to be resolved.
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I'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well
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For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
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Let him smell his way to Dover!
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Nay, we must think men are not gods, Nor of them look for such observancy As fits the bridal.
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The last taste of sweets is sweetest last.
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T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.
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All's well that ends well still the fine's the crown. Whate'er the course, the end is the renown.
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