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Absence doth sharpen love, presence strengthens it the one brings fuel, the other blows it till it burns clear.

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
Love
Fuel
Till
Absence
Presence
Sharpen
Brings
Strengthens
Blow
Burns
Distance
Blows
Clear
Doth

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Kindness nobler ever than revenge.
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Anger's my meat. I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding.
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Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, but thankful even for hate that is meant love.
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To be merry best becomes you for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour.
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Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.
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It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions.
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O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
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O no, thy love though much, is not so great, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.
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Love`s reason`s without reason
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Gently to hear, kindly to judge.
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You are my true and honourable wife As dear to me as the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart.
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He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea singing aloud Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.
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A blind man can't forget the eyesight he lost, show me any beautiful girl. How can her beauty not remind me of the one whose beauty surpasses hers?
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Rumor is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.
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To kill, I grant, is sin's extremest gust But, in defence, by mercy, 'tis most just.
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Rest you fair, good signior Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
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Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow. Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, And put sullen black incontinent. I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. March sadly after. Grace my mournings here In weeping after this untimely bier.
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If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal of his friend?
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