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

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Thou know'st 'tis common all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.
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Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
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Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.
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Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep.
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And why not death rather than living torment? To die is to be banish'd from myself And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her Is self from self: a deadly banishment!
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Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter.
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O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with Time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face. But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?
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Those that much covet are with gain so fond, For what they have not, that which they possess They scatter and unloose it from their bond, And so, by hoping more, they have but less Or, gaining more, the profit of excess Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain, That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.
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Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
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Absence from those we love is self from self - a deadly banishment.
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And a man's life's no more than to say One.
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The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.
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I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes when they are in great danger I recover them.
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Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? Polonius: By the mass, and ‘tis like a camel, indeed. Hamlet: Methinks it is like a weasel. Polonius: It is backed like a weasel. Hamlet: Or like a whale? Polonius: Very like a whale.
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To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder, In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick, cross lightning.
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Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep.
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I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.
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Be like you thought our love would last too long, if it were chain'd together
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Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.
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