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What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.

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
Stuff
Plenty
Stills
Twenties
Still
Kissing
Come
Endure
Unsure
Lies
Mistress
Youth
Delay
Sweet
Kiss
Lying
Twenty

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But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
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What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel? *Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*
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From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain and nourish all the world.
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Titus Andronicus, my lord the Emperor Sends thee this word, that, if thou love thy sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus, Or any one of you, chop off your hand And send it to the King: he for the same Will send thee hither both thy sons alive, And that shall be the ransom for their fault.
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What Time hath scanted men in hair, he hath given them in wit.
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I am wrapped in dismal thinking.
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From this time forth My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!
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This sleep is sound indeed this is a sleep That from this golden rigol hath divorc'd So many English kings.
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Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.
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Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you, undo this button.
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If she lives till doomsday, she'll burn a week longer than the whole world.
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Be cheerful wipe thine eyes: Some falls are means the happier to arise
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Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.
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If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.
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All of Creation’s a farce. Man was born as a joke. In his head his reason is buffeted Like wind-blown smoke. Life is a game. Everyone ridicules everyone else. But he who has the last laugh Laughs longest.
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