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Make use of time, let not advantage slip Beauty within itself should not be wasted: Fair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime Rot and consume themselves in little time.

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
Littles
Flowers
Little
Fairs
Make
Fair
Consume
Time
Advantage
Slip
Flower
Gather
Beauty
Wasted
Within
Slips
Use
Prime

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My wits begin to turn.
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Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny. It hath been Th' untimely emptying of the happy throne And fall of many kings.
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But, indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds [vows] disgraced them. Viola: Thy reason, man? Feste: Troth [Truthfully], sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so false, I am loathe to prove reason with them.
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Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding they brav'ry in their rotten smoke?
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Are you up to your destiny?
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Like one who draws the model of a house beyond his power to build it who, half through, gives o'er, and leaves his part-created cost a naked subject to the weeping clouds.
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O braggart vile and damned furious wight!
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Oh why rebuke you him that loves you so? / Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.
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For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings... All murdered for within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king, keeps Death his court... and with a little pin bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!
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How much an ill word may empoison liking!
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Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through fog and filthy air.
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The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night, Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light.
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O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.
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I can express no kinder sign of love, than this kind kiss.
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Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.
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And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire, The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.
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For to be wise and love exceeds man's might.
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When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.
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Use every man according to his desert and who should 'scape whipping? Use them after your own honor and dignity, the less they deserve ... the more merit in your bounty.
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I heard a bird so sing, Whose music, to my thinking, pleased the king.
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