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Like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his own lie.
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
Credit
Memory
Telling
Memories
Lying
Truth
Made
Sinner
Like
Memorable
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Done to death by slanderous tongue
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He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion.
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There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.
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There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
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Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight
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But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.
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This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet
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Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but backrout quite the wits.
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What e'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time.
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On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily.
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Contention, like a horse, Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose, And bears down all before him.
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Set your heart at rest. The fairyland buys not the child of me.
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Love is your master, for he masters you And he that is so yoked by a fool Methinks should not be chronicled for wise.
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He's loved of the distracted multitude, who like not in their judgement, but their eyes.
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Let's take the instant by the forward top For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time Steals ere we can effect them.
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Reputation is an idle and most false imposition oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.
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