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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
Smell
Groaning
Cry
Burial
Dog
Havoc
Shall
Deed
War
Foul
Earth
Loose
Men
Dogs
Deeds
Carrion
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My wits begin to turn.
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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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Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.
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But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.
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Women speak two languages - one of which is verbal.
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He that is thy friend indeed, he will help you in your need.
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The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.
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Now 'tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden.
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O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.
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To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.
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If by chance I talk a little wild, forgive me I had it from my father.
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But virtue never will be mov'd, Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven.
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Music can minister to minds diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with its sweet oblivious antidote, cleanse the full bosom of all perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart.
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The old folk, time's doting chronicles.
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Good friend for Jesus sake forbeare, To digg the dust encloased heare! Blest be the man that spares thes stones, And curst be he that moves my bones.
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When lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner
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And my poor fool is hanged! No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more, Never, Never, Never, Never, Never! Pray you, undo this button.
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Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
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Nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will.
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Omission to do what is necessary Seals a commission to a blank of danger And danger, like an ague, subtly taints Even then when we sit idly in the sun.
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