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Cry havoc! and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
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
Dog
Havoc
Shall
Deed
War
Foul
Earth
Loose
Men
Dogs
Deeds
Carrion
Smell
Groaning
Cry
Burial
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O, that our fathers would applause our loves, To seal our happiness with hteir consents!
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He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
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For he was likely, had he been put on, to have proved most royally.
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When rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will
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What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted! Thrice is he arm'd, that hath his quarrel just.
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Go wisely and slowly. Those who rush stumble and fall.
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Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.
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Friendly counsel cuts off many foes.
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My soul is in the sky.
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Conversation should be pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, free without indecency, learned without conceitedness, novel without falsehood.
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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 cottage princes' palaces.
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We are not ourselves When nature, being oppressed, commands the mind To suffer with the body.
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Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O any thing, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
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O polished perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night.
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O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip Hath virgined it e'er since.
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The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good.
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I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book!
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My desolation does begin to make A better life.
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Tears water our growth.
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