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Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

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
Soul
Fearful
Barbed
Love
Hath
Mounting
Lady
Wrinkled
Nimbly
Souls
Fright
Steeds
Fronts
Grim
Lascivious
Front
Adversaries
Capers
Instead
Pleasing
Lute
War
Chamber
Smoothed

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The cunning livery of hell.
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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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An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.
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It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing.
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There's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year.
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Faith, stay here this night they will surely do us no harm you saw they speak us fair, give us gold methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch.
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Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy: sayest thou that house is dark?
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The color of the king doth come and go, Between his purpose and his conscience, Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set: His passion is so ripe, it needs must break.
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For conspiracy, I know not how it tastes, though it be dished For me to try how.
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Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
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You speak an infinite deal of nothing.
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Thou whoreson zed! Thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a jakes with him. *all cheer for Shakespearean insults*
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Now, good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both!
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But I am constant as the Northern Star, Of whose true fixed and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament.
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It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
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Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen! Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head! Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood Amaze the welkin with your broken staves!
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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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Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma or a hideous dream.
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