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Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I ha' lost my reputation, I ha' lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial!

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
Remains
Lost
Part
Character
Bestial
Immortal
Reputation

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Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.
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Hardness ever of hardness is mother.
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Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits? Malvolio: Fool, there was never a man so notoriously abused. I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art. Feste: But as well? Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in you wits than a fool.
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Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.
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Self-love is the most inhibited sin in the canon.
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Wisely, I say, I am a bachelor.
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But she makes hungry Where she most satisfies.
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Tis not the many oaths that make the truth But the plain single vow, that is vow'd true.
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It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing.
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How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
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Thou speak'st like him's untutored to repeat: Who makes the fairest show means most deceit.
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It is silliness to live when to live is torment.
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Through tattered clothes great vices do appear Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.
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Like the lily That once was mistress of the field and flourished, I'll hang my head and perish.
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And teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night.
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I'll read enough When I do see the very book indeed Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.
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This is a way to kill a wife with kindness.
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When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men for thus sings he, Cuckoo Cuckoo, cuckoo O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.
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Lord, what fools these mortals be!
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