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Thou whoreson zed! Thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a jakes with him. *all cheer for Shakespearean insults*

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
Lord
Letter
Give
Unnecessary
Shakespearean
Giving
Cheer
Mortar
Insult
Jake
Thou
Lear
Letters
Insults
Wall
Tread
Leave
Villain

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Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion. I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
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When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married.
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All the world's a stage, and all the men and women mearly players.
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But miserable most, to love unloved? This you should pity rather than despise
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That strain again! It had a dying fall: O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour! Enough no more: 'Tis not so sweet as it was before.
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What's done is done. The joy is in the doing.
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A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' th' forest, A motley fool! a miserable world! As I do live by food, I met a fool Who laid him down and basked him in the sun And railed on Lady Fortune in good terms, In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.
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What's past and what's to come is strew'd with husks And formless ruin of oblivion.
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Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.
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By innocence I swear, and by my youth, I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, And that no woman has, nor never none Shall mistress be of it save I alone.
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We should hold day with the Antipodes, If you would walk in absence of the sun.
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When love begins to sicken and decay it uses an enforced ceremony.
William Shakespeare
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Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.
William Shakespeare
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My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except.
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Men so noble, However faulty, yet should find respect For what they have been: 'tis a cruelty To load a falling man.
William Shakespeare
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Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure, And to that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour-a great patience.
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And thus I clothe my naked villainy With odd old ends stol'n out of holy writ And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
William Shakespeare
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For there was never yet philosoper That could endure the toothache patiently, However they have writ the style of gods, And made a push at chance and sufferance.
William Shakespeare
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The cheek Is apter than the tongue to tell an errand.
William Shakespeare
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How low am I, thou painted maypole?
William Shakespeare