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Every man has his fault, and honesty is his.
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
Athens
Fault
Faults
Honesty
Blame
Every
Men
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My long sickness Of health and living now begins to mend, And nothing brings me all things.
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Beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time.
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Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash ’tis something, nothing ’twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.
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Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.
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But here's the joy: my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery!
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Grief makes one hour ten.
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I have heard it said There is an art which in their piedness shares With great creating nature.
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The last taste of sweets is sweetest last.
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All his successors gone before him have done 't and all his ancestors that come after him may.
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So well thy words become thee as thy wounds.
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Minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this!
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I have been long a sleeper but I trust My absence doth neglect no great design Which by my presence might have been concluded.
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And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother
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How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping?
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I am declined Into the vale of years.
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To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need, and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars.
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I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercise.
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Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them.
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He who has injured thee was either stronger or weaker than thee. If weaker, spare him if stronger, spare thyself.
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Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands. Curtsied when you have and kissed The wild waves whist, Foot is featly here and there And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. Ariel's song, scene II, Act I
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