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

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If music be the food of love, play on.
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O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! And yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hooping.
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I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercise.
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Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth And delves the parallels in beauty's brow.
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A woman's fitness comes by fits.
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Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.
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No matter where of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth
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For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
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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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Time is like a fashionable host That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arm outstretch'd, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer.
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What's the newest grief? Each minute tunes a new one.
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The sun with one eye vieweth all the world.
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They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.
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Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn but I shall have my pocket picked?
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This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
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I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop.
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Patience is sottish, and impatience does become a dog that's mad.
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Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business, Hath raised me from my bed nor doth the general care Take hold on me for my particular grief Is of so floodgate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself.
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