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There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men all perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.

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
Men
Dissemblers
Naught
Honesty
Trust
Faith

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Omission to do what is necessary Seals a commission to a blank of danger And danger, like an ague, subtly taints Even then when we sit idly in the sun.
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Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending.
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But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of?
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What infinite heart's-ease Must kings neglect that private men enjoy! And what have kings that privates have not too, Save ceremony, save general ceremony?
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I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched in so many giddy offences as He hath generally taxed their whole their whole sex withal.
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No particular scandal one can touch but it confounds the breather.
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We few. We happy few. We band of brothers, for he today That sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.
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Strikes deeper, grows with more pernicious root.
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This is a way to kill a wife with kindness.
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Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
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Speak low, if you speak love.
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When you fear a foe, fear crushes your strength and this weakness gives strength to your opponents.
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Poor and content is rich, and rich enough.
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But love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offense, Crying, 'That's good that's gone.
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which.
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To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe, And so your follies fight against yourself. Fear, and be slain--so worse can come to fight And fight and die is death destroying death, Where fearing dying pays death servile breath.
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While thou livest keep a good tongue in thy head.
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I am a subject, And I challenge law. Attorneys are denied me, And therefore personally I lay my claim To my inheritance of free descent.
William Shakespeare
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He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter.
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Travelers must be content.
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