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With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine, than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
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
Laughter
Mortifying
Wine
Groans
Rather
Merriment
Come
Mirth
Heart
Liver
Wrinkles
Heat
Cool
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Besides, our nearness to the King in love Is near the hate of those love not the King.
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This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh!
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All things are ready, if our mind be so.
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That which is now a horse, even with a thought The rack dislimms, and makes it indistinct As water is in water
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Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
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Ships are but boards, sailors but men.
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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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Tis a blushing shame-faced spirit that mutinies in a man's bosom. It fills a man full of obstacles. It made me once restore a purse of gold that (by chance) I found. It beggars any man that keeps it.
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Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
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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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I'll have no husband, if you be not he.
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I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.
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Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? Polonius: By the mass, and ‘tis like a camel, indeed. Hamlet: Methinks it is like a weasel. Polonius: It is backed like a weasel. Hamlet: Or like a whale? Polonius: Very like a whale.
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Farewell, my sister, fare thee well. The elements be kind to thee, and make Thy spirits all of comfort: fare thee well.
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In a false quarrel there is no true valor.
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Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.
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A glooming peace this morning with it brings The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
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