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And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.

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
Nothing
Kings
Barren
Small
Serves
Call
Cover
Upon
Model
Death
Bones
Tell
Ground
Stories
Models
Earth
Sake
Paste

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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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Send danger from the east unto the west, so honor cross it from the north to south.
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Avaunt, you cullions!
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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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...and then, in dreaming, / The clouds methought would open and show riches / Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked / I cried to dream again.
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Watch tonight, pray tomorrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you!
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The dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.
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I will not trust you, I, Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray, My legs are longer though, to run away.
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There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee.
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My desolation does begin to make A better life.
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My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color.
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Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining.
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Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts- O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!
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In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life.
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For he was likely, had he been put on, to have proved most royally.
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Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.
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O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors.
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There is none but he Whose being I do fear and under him My genius is rebuked, as it is said Mark Antony's was by Caesar.
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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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