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And simple truth miscalled simplicity

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
Programming
Simplicity
Learning
Simple
Truth

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Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' th' season Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, Which some call nature's bastards.
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Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon as done.
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Tis much when sceptres are in children's hands, But more when envy breeds unkind division: There comes the ruin, there begins confusion.
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He that sleeps feels not the tooth-ache
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Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
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The king is but a man, as I am the violet smells to him as it doth to me the element shows to him as it doth to me all his senses have but human conditions his ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing.
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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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Thou shalt be free As mountain winds: but then exactly do All points of my command.
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My crown is in my heart, not on my head not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, nor to be seen: my crown is called content, a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.
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I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.
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Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
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They say miracles are past.
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What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.
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Assume a virtue if you have it not.
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Affection is a coal that must be cooled else, suffered, it will set the heart on fire.
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We see which way the stream of time doth run.
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They lie deadly that tell you have good faces.
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Up and down, up and down I will lead them up and down I am feared in field in town Goblin, lead them up and down
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