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If we are true to ourselves, we can not be false to anyone.
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
False
Anyone
True
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And either victory, or else a grave.
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I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
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What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.
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Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish her election, Sh'ath sealed thee for herself.
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For precious friends hid in death's dateless night.
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Ay, but hearken, sir though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat.
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My long sickness Of health and living now begins to mend, And nothing brings me all things.
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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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Thou art the Mars of malcontents.
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But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.
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Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.
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Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
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For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
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Out, you tallow-face! You baggage!
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And to the English court assemble now, From every region, apes of idleness!
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Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor for 'tis the mind that makes the body rich
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I had rather be a toad, and live upon the vapor of a dungeon than keep a corner in the thing I love for others uses.
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And writers say, as the most forward bud Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, Even so by love the young and tender wit Is turn'd to folly, blasting in the bud, Losing his verdure even in the prime, And all the fair effects of future hopes.
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I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways.
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After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.
William Shakespeare
