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for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)

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
Great
Grief
Throne
Kings
Sorrows
Sorrow
Thrones
Scene
Supporter
Hold
Bows
Huge
Firm
Earth
John
Come
King
Constance

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Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!
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You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you And here remain with your uncertainty!
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All that glisters is not gold Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.
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A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.
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What's the news? None, my lord, but that the world's grown honest, Then is doomsday near.
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Tis the mind that makes the body rich.
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Mend when thou canst be better at thy leisure.
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My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
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At Christmas, I no more desire a rose.
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Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.
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Some are born great, others achieve greatness.
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Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!
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Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep To sleep, perchance to dream—For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause, there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life
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Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
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When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.
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How many a holy and obsequious tear hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye, as interest of the dead!
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The bitter clamor of two eager tongues.
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POLONIUS: What do you read, my lord? HAMLET: Words, words, words.
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