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When griping grief the heart doth wound, and doleful dumps the mind opresses, then music, with her silver sound, with speedy help doth lend redress.

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
Heart
Memorable
Doleful
Mind
Silver
Dumps
Wounds
Speedy
Grief
Redress
Help
Dump
Sound
Lend
Helping
Doth
Music
Wound

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Study is like the heaven's glorious sun, That will not be deep-searched with saucy looks: Small have continual plodders ever won, Save base authority from others' books.
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A knavish speech sleeps in a fool's ear.
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How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, Their bones with industry.
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They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.
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I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come (Phebe)
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A scar nobly got is a good livery of honor.
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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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And yet,to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.
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Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great. Oh! I could hew up rocks, and fight with flint.
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Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.
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Away, you trifler! Love! I love thee not, I care not for thee, Kate: this is no world To play with mammets and to tilt with lips: We must have bloody noses and cracked crowns.
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Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.
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Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.
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Prosperity's the very bond of love.
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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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Rumor is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.
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I am thy father's spirit Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night And, for the day, confin'd to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, Are burnt and purg'd away.
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