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I have no way and therefore want no eyes I stumbled when I saw. Full oft 'tis seen our means secure us, and our mere defects prove our commodities.

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
Eye
Secure
Means
Mere
Mean
Saws
Stumbled
Way
Therefore
Commodities
Prove
Lear
Full
Blindness
Seen
Defects
Eyes
Commodity

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Cease to lament for that thou canst not help and study help for that which thou lamentest.
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a wild dedication of yourselves To undiscovered waters, undreamed shores.
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Things past redress are now with me past care
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A beggar's book outworths a noble's blood.
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I am asham'd that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace.
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Fools are not mad folks.
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Listen to many, speak to a few.
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The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.
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It is a wise father that knows his own child.
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What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.
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How sometimes nature will betray its folly, Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime To harder bosoms!
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We are ready to try our fortunes to the last man.
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Say she rail why, I'll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown I'll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash'd with dew. Say she be mute and will not speak a word Then I'll commend her volubility, and say she uttereth piercing eloquence.
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Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow. Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, And put sullen black incontinent. I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. March sadly after. Grace my mournings here In weeping after this untimely bier.
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Small to greater matters must give way.
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A table-full of welcome!
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What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?
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To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, Such seems your beauty still.
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Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
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And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not.
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