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For there was never yet philosoper That could endure the toothache patiently, However they have writ the style of gods, And made a push at chance and sufferance.

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
Endure
However
Sufferance
Style
Toothache
Chance
Writ
Made
Patiently
Never
Endurance
Push
Gods

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You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
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Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
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Man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assured.
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For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.
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From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing.
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Love is merely a madness.
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And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
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Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty Calls virtue hypocrite takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love, And sets a blister there makes marriage vows As false as dicers' oaths.
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If she lives till doomsday, she'll burn a week longer than the whole world.
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Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.
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Security is the chief enemy of mortals.
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This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedler and retails his wares.
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When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.
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Time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will.
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Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.
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