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You told a lie, an odious damned lie Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.
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
Soul
Odious
Damned
Wicked
Told
Lying
Upon
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Tis better using France than trusting France Let us be back'd with God, and with the seas, Which He hath given for fence impregnable, And with their helps only defend ourselves In them, and in ourselves, our safety lies.
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There was a star danced, and under that was I born.
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Women are as roses, whose fair flower, being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.
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Two may keep counsel putting one away!
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God send everyone their heart's desire!
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I bear a charmed life.
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Ere I could make thee open thy white hand, and clap thyself my love then didst thou utter, I am your's for ever!
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Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?
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Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand.
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I was a coward on instinct.
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To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be it is impossible: Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.
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Two women placed together makes cold weather.
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Direct not him whose way himself will choose 'Tis breath not lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.
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Ay, but hearken, sir though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat.
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You are thought here to the most senseless and fit man for the job.
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Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
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My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish'd this world's eternity.
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The caterpillars of the commonwealth, Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.
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Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Ang'ring itself and others.
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My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
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