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What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.
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
Purpose
Often
Determination
Determine
Slave
Memory
Memories
Break
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Greatest scandal waits on greatest state.
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Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, Manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man
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O Lord that lends me life, Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness!
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When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.
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I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness, And from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting.
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I dreamt my lady came and found me dead . . . . . . . . . . . . And breathed such life with kisses in my lips That I revived and was an emperor.
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An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.
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Away, you mouldy rogue, away!
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My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel I know not where I am nor what I do.
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... And death unloads thee.
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Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date . . .
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Love will not be spurred to what it loathes
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If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit, The one's for use, the other useth it.
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Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied.
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A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loath'd than an effeminate man.
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Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
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Henceforth, I'll bear Affliction till it do cry out itself, 'Enough, enough, and die.
William Shakespeare
All's well if all ends well.
William Shakespeare
Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls Conscience is but a work that cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong in awe: Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law!
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Lawn as white as driven snow Cyprus black as e'er was crow Gloves as sweet as damask roses.
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