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Now, neighbor confines, purge you of your scum! Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance, revel the night, rob, murder, and commit the oldest sins the newest kind of ways?

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
Sin
Scum
Drink
Oldest
Ways
Swear
Ruffian
Night
Sins
Delinquency
Kind
Neighbor
Revel
Way
Commit
Newest
Murder
Purge
Dance
Confines

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A woman that is like a German clock, Still a-repairing, ever out of frame, And never going aright, being a watch, But being watched that it may still go right!
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He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.
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The will is infinite and the execution confin'd, the desire is boundless and the act a slave to limit.
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Who alone suffers suffers most i' th' mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.
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I would give all of my fame for a pot of ale and safety.
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But here's the joy: my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery!
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Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish her election, Sh'ath sealed thee for herself.
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Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lies in sweetest bud. All men make faults.
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Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears Moist it again, and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity.
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Why, then the world ’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.
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For the poor wren (The most diminutive of birds) will fight, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl.
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My business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.
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There's a time for all things.
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There is a time in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.
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At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth But like of each thing that in season grows.
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The most peerless piece of earth, I think, that e' er the sun shone bright on.
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My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish'd this world's eternity.
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O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do.
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There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.
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Brevity is the soul of wit.
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