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I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.

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
Place
Nodding
Dream
Violet
Blows
Wild
Blow
Summer
Flower
Thyme
Grows
Midsummer

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That is honor's scorn Which challenges itself as honor's born And is not like the sire. Honors thrive When rather from our acts we them derive Than our foregoers.
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Violent fires soon burn out themselves, small showers last long, but sudden storms are short he tires betimes that spurs too fast.
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When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men for thus sings he, Cuckoo Cuckoo, cuckoo O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.
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Honesty is not the best policy - merely the safest
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There is none but he Whose being I do fear and under him My genius is rebuked, as it is said Mark Antony's was by Caesar.
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No place indeed should murder sanctuarize Revenge should have no bounds.
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Every true man's apparel fits your thief.
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Poise the cause in justice's equal scales, Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause prevails.
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I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.
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Good God, the souls of all my tribe defend From jealousy!
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Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love's full sacrifice, He offers in another's enterprise But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see Than in the glass of Pandar's praise may be, Yet hold I off.
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Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is convey'd Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen.
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Keep time! How sour sweet music is when time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives. I wasted time and now doth time waste me.
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The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burnt on the water.
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Beware the ides of March.
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O tiger's heart wrapped in a woman's hide!
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Mine honour is my life both grow in one Take honour from me, and my life is done.
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Love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition: Win straying souls with modesty again, Cast none away.
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Beware Of entrance to a quarrel.
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