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Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But bad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

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
Power
Flower
Brass
Earth
Whose
Boundless
Hold
Mortality
Shall
Stone
Since
Rage
Beauty
Stones
Science
Sea
Action
Stronger
Plea

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What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel? *Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*
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There is a law in each well-ordered nation To curb those raging appetites that are Most disobedient and refractory.
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I have lov'd her ever since I saw her and still I see her beautiful
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
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When love begins to sicken and decay it uses an enforced ceremony.
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The soul of this man is his clothes.
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Love adds a precious seeing to the eye.
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Danger knows full well that Caesar is more dangerous than he. We are two lions litter’d in one day, and I the elder and more terrible.
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Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge.
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But when I came, alas, to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day.
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Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipped of justice.
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The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, A goodly apple rotten at the heart. O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!
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If she lives till doomsday, she'll burn a week longer than the whole world.
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. . . nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it he died As one that had been studied in his death To throw away the dearest thing he owed, As 'twere a careless trifle.
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Nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs, Losing both beauty and utility.
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To die: - to sleep: No more and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished.
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It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing.
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If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this day an unaccustomed spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
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