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To sleep perchance to dream

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
Dream
Perchance
Sleep

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O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple.
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I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.
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O world, world! thus is the poor agent despised. O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavor be so loved, and the performance so loathed?
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Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind And makes it fearful and degenerate.
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What the vengeance, could he not speak 'em fair?
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Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.
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Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
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A Loud Laugh Bespeaks a Vacant Mind!
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Good reasons must of force give place to better.
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His jest will savour but of shallow wit, When thousands weep, more than did laugh at it.
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I understand thy kisses, and thou mine, And that's a feeling disputation.
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Leave us to our free election.
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For she had eyes and chose me.
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I would not lose so great an honor As one man more methinks would share with me For the best hope I have.
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Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief.
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The happiest youth, viewing his progress through, What perils past, what crosses to ensue, Would shut the book, and sit him down and die.
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The morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness.
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For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
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O, let me kiss that hand! KING LEAR: Let me wipe it first it smells of mortality.
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Why, i' faith, methinks she's too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little for a great praise: only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome and being no other but as she is, I do not like her. (Benedick, from Much Ado About Nothing)
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