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So far be distant and good night, sweet friend: thy love ne'er alter, till they sweet life end

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
Sweet
Friend
Night
Ends
Good
Love
Alter
Life
Distant
Till

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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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Farewell, fair cruelty.
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Un-thread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again discarded faith.
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She says I am not fair, that I lack manners She calls me proud, and that she could not love me, Were man as rare as Phoenix.
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When griping grief the heart doth wound, and doleful dumps the mind opresses, then music, with her silver sound, with speedy help doth lend redress.
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If money go before, all ways do lie open.
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Kiss me, Kate, we shall be married o'Sunday
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Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow
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If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions: I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching.
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Speak on, but be not over-tedious.
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The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.
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I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.
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Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form
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Take pains. Be perfect.
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Fare thee well, king: sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.
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If thou art rich, thou art poor for, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, and death unloads thee.
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What wouldst thou do, old man? Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak When power to flattery bows?
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What is thy sentence then but speechless death.
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What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.
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An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England.
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