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As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free.
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
Would
Tempest
Indulgence
Pardon
Crimes
Crime
Free
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One man in his time plays many parts.
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Tis in my memory lock'd, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.
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Out, you tallow-face! You baggage!
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Let's go hand in hand, not one before another.
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Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
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If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
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These are the forgeries of jealousy And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.
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My stars shine darkly over me
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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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Within the book and volume of thy brain.
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The devil is a gentleman.
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The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our own virtues.
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Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace.
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Gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.
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Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypres let me be laid Fly away, fly away, breath I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
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Gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, I gain'd my freedom.
William Shakespeare
To pore upon a book, to seek the light of truth.
William Shakespeare
Spirits are not finely touched But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence But like a thrifty goddess she determines Herself the glory of a creditor,Both thanks and use.
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They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.
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With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage.
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