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I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.

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
Love
Benedick
Protest
None
Left
Heart
Much

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I pray thee cease thy counsel, Which falls into mine ears as profitless as water in a sieve.
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I would not lose so great an honor As one man more methinks would share with me For the best hope I have.
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Hardness ever of hardness is mother.
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God bless thee and put meekness in thy breast, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty!
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If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I defied not
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The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
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Of all the fair resort of gentlemen That every day with parle encounter me, In thy opinion which is worthiest love?
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And to the English court assemble now, From every region, apes of idleness!
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My love is as a fever, longing still.
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But love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offense, Crying, 'That's good that's gone.
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God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.
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Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.
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Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
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There is a kind of character in thy life, That to the observer doth thy history, fully unfold.
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True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings.
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They that touch pitch will be defiled.
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Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.
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So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
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All that glisters is not gold Often have you heard that told.
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No, no, I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here.
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