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You must not think That we are made of stuff so fat and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger And think it pastime.
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
Must
Pastime
Made
Shook
Think
Beard
Thinking
Fats
Dull
Danger
Courage
Stuff
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When we mean to build, We first survey the plot, then draw the model And when we see the figure of the house, Then must we rate the cost of the erection.
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I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.
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My heart laments that virtue cannot live Out of the teeth of emulation.
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I came, saw, and overcame.
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A rotten case abides no handling.
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The icy precepts of respect.
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Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil With them forgive yourself.
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Use almost can change the stamp of nature.
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I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
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Is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!
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Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, have yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltiness of time.
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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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For the success, Although particular, shall give a scantling Of good or bad unto the general And in such indexes, although small pricks To their subsequent volumes, there is seen The baby figure of the giant mass Of things to come at large.
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How soar sweet music is, when time is broke, and no proportion kept!
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What the vengeance, could he not speak 'em fair?
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Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, but gold that's put to use more gold begets.
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I’ll look to like, if looking liking move But no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
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Retire me to my Milan, where Every third thought shall be my grave.
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Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.
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Now, infidel, I have you on the hip!
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