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Good friend for Jesus sake forbeare, To digg the dust encloased heare! Blest be the man that spares thes stones, And curst be he that moves my bones.

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
Friend
Tombstone
Jesus
Spares
Moving
Moves
Good
Dust
Men
Bones
Stones
Sake
Curst
Friendship
Blest

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We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
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To be slow in words is a woman's only virtue.
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My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
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I had rather be a kitten and cry mew Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers.
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wert thou as far As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise.
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Can it be chat modesty may more betray Our sense than woman's lightness?
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Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter!
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Who would be so mocked with glory, or to live But in a dream of friendship, To have his pomp and all what state compounds But only painted, like his varnished friends?
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For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.
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Say she rail why, I'll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown I'll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash'd with dew. Say she be mute and will not speak a word Then I'll commend her volubility, and say she uttereth piercing eloquence.
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What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
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It warms the very sickness in my heart, That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, Thus diddest thou
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Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
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All love's pleasure shall not match its woe.
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Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.
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When a father gives to his son, both laugh when a son gives to his father, both cry.
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Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.
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What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.
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