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Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly a flower that dies when it begins to bud a doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.

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
Good
Flower
Faded
Broken
Glass
Dead
Glasses
Beauty
Vain
Within
Begins
Dies
Suddenly
Gloss
Hours
Shining
Bud
Lost
Hour
Doubtful

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Every thing that grows / Holds in perfection but a little moment.
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There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, For I am armed so strong in honesty That they pass by me as the idle wind
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Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
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Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.
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Will Fortune never come with both hands full, But write her fair words still in foulest terms?
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Let me not live, after my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff of younger spirits.
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There's nothing in this world can make me joy: Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.
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When I got enough confidence, the stage was gone. When I was sure of losing, I won. When I needed people the most, they left me. When I learnt to dry my tears, I found a shoulder to cry on. And when I mastered the art of hating, somebody started loving me.
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O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable
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Honour travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast.
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O, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
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Ignorance is the curse of God knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.
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I had rather be a kitten and cry mew Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers.
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A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.
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By-and-by is easily said.
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O horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee!
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We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.
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Do not plunge thyself too far in anger.
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To beguile the time, look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue.
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If you shall marry, You give away this hand, and this is mine You give away heaven's vows, and those are mine You give away myself, which is known mine For I by vow am so embodied yours That she which marries you must marry me-- Either both or none.
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