Quote

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.

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
Feels
Hath
Honour
Air
Died
Falstaff
Honor
Trim
Hear
Reckoning
Word
Wednesday
Feel
Doth

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With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.
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Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
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Lawyers Are: Perilous mouths.
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Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade.
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We have seen better days.
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Crabbed age and youth cannot live together: Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care.
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A miracle. Here's our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee, but by this light I take thee for pity. Beatrice: I would not deny you, but by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption. Benedick: Peace. I will stop your mouth.
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Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears: Look, when I vow, I weep and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?
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For this relief, much thanks
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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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Plenty and peace breed cowards hardness ever of hardiness is mother.
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But I will be, A bridegroom in my death, and run into't As to a lover's bed.
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My salad days, When I was green in judgment.
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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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A kind Of excellent dumb discourse.
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A whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing as if I borrowed mine oaths of him and might not spend them at my pleasure. When a gentleman is disposed to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths, ha?
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He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace and fear: And you all know, security Is mortals' chiefest enemy.
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But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.
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He is well paid that is well satisfied.
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