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I have thrust myself into this maze, Haply to wive and thrive as best I may.
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
Marriage
May
Best
Haply
Maze
Mazes
Thrust
Thrive
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Many a true word hath been spoken in jest.
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All dark and comfortless.
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This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators, save only he,Did that they did in envy of CaesarHe only, in a general honest thoughtAnd common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elementsSo mixd in him that Nature might stand upAnd say to all the world, This was a man!
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Our content Is our best having.
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The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.
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Drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things . . . nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance.
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Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep.
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Thou knowest, winter tames man, woman, and beast.
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All the world's a stage, and all the men and women mearly players.
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Bait the hook well. This fish will bite.
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Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm from an anointed King.
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Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time.
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I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.
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As for my wife, I would you had her spirit in such another The third o' th' world is yours, which with a snaffle You may pace easy, but not such a wife.
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Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety.
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Women are not In their best fortunes strong, but want will perjure the ne'er-touched vestal.
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The private wound is deepest. O time most accurst, 'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!
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Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.
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The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.
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May never glorious sun reflex his beams Upon the country where you make abode! But darkness and the gloomy shade of death Environ you till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves.
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