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If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.
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
Gave
Parchment
Tell
Would
Handwriting
Think
Ink
Thinking
Blows
Skin
Skins
Blow
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Th abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power.
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The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
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The color of the king doth come and go, Between his purpose and his conscience, Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set: His passion is so ripe, it needs must break.
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Be cheerful wipe thine eyes: Some falls are means the happier to arise
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Make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
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Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel.
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Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty.
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Whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise.
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Allow not nature more than nature needs.
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What need the bridge much broader than the flood?
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He is the most wretched of men who has never felt adversity.
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The morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness.
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Honour travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast.
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Love asks me no questions, and gives me endless support.
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Time travels at different speeds for different people. I can tell you who time strolls for, who it trots for, who it gallops for, and who it stops cold for.
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Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.
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If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!
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I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.
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Pleasure and revenge Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice Of any true decision.
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How soar sweet music is, when time is broke, and no proportion kept!
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