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I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.

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
Bears
Contemplation
Think
Fields
Memorable
Thinking
Thoughts
Desires
Rumour
Peace
Noise
Remnant
Desire
Pray
Henceforth
Part
Bear
Rumours
Body
Field
Devout
May
Praying
Remnants

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She told her, while she kept it, 'Twould make her amiable and subdue my father Entirely to her love, but if she lost it Or made a gift of it, my father's eye Should hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt After new fancies.
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If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men’s cottages princes’ palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions: I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching.
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For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
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Adversity makes strange bedfellows.
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He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.
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When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.
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Out, you tallow-face! You baggage!
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Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
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Death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!
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O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
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I have almost forgotten the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool’d to hear a night-shriek and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in’t: I have supt full with horrors Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, cannot once start me.
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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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Confess yourself to heaven, Repent what's past, avoid what is to come, And do not spread the compost on the weeds To make them ranker.
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Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
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I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that's in me should set hell on fire.
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To saucy doubts and fears.
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