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Love is . . . a madness most discreet

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
Discreet
Madness
Love

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This we prescribe, though no physician Deep malice makes too deep incision Forget, forgive conclude and be agreed Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.
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I would not wish any companion in the world but you.
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For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
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This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.
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Thieves for their robbery have authority When judges steal themselves.
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One half of me is yours, the other half is yours, Mine own, I would say but if mine, then yours, And so all yours.
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There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps and not ever sad then for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamt of unhappiness, and waked herself with laughing.
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And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence
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But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, Nature and Fortune join'd to make thee great: Of Nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose but Fortune, O!
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Suffer love a good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.
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You have but mistook me all the while... I live by bread like you, taste grief, feel want, need friends. Conditioned thus how can you call me king?
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Though now this grained face of mine be hid In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow, And all the conduits of my blood froze up, Yet hath my night of life some memory, My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, My dull deaf ears a little use to hear.
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How poor are they that have have not patients.
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We that are true lovers run into strange capers but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.
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There is a world elsewhere.
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Fortune is painted blind, with a muffler afore her eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is blind.
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Every good servant does not all commands.
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Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain.
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Well, God's above all and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.
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And thus I clothe my naked villainy With odd old ends stol'n out of holy writ And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
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