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It is thyself, mine own self's better part Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.

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
Fortune
Eye
Dear
Hope
Dearer
Part
Mines
Thyself
Earth
Mine
Sole
Better
Sweet
Claim
Self
Food
Aim
Heart
Clear
Claims
Heaven

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Come, go with us, speak fair you may salve so, Not what is dangerous present, but the los Of what is past.
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Let every man be master of his time.
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I see, sir, you are liberal in offers. You taught me first to beg, and now methinks You teach me how a beggar should be answered.
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Thou call'st me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.
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To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.
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Perseverance... keeps honor bright: to have done, is to hang quite out of fashion, like a rusty nail in monumental mockery.
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Who is so firm that can't be seduced?
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You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you And here remain with your uncertainty!
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When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.
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She will die if you love her not, And she will die ere she might make her love known
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The proverb is something musty.
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When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh! the doxy, over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
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O, I have suffered With those that I saw suffer!
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So may I, blind fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving.
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How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
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Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
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Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?
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Good wombs have borne bad sons. -- (Miranda, I:2)
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Words are easy, like the wind Faithful friends are hard to find.
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Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand.
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