Quote

Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome therefore I will depart unkissed.

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
Words
Depart
Foul
Breath
Breaths
Therefore
Wind

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I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.
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The hideous god of war.
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Beware the leader who bangs the drums of war in order to whip the citizenry into a patriotic fervor.
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The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.
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He is well paid that is well satisfied.
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To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.
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There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.
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If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark
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To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand therefore, if tou art mov'd, thou runst away. (To be angry is to move, to be brave is to stand still. Therefore, if you're angry, you'll run away.)
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Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.
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Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.
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See the minutes, how they run, How many make the hour full complete How many hours bring about the day How many days will finish up the year How many years a mortal man may live.
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But as the unthought-on accident is guilty To what we wildly do, so we profess Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies Of every wind that blows.
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Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv'd a blessed time for, from this instant, There's nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys renown, and grace is dead The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.
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I feel it gone, yet know not when it left.
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Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand.
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