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Die for adultery! No: The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly does lecher in my sight

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
Dies
Wren
Doe
Wrens
Gilded
Adultery
Sight
Sin
Goes
Small

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A thousand moral paintings I can show That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune's More pregnantly than words.
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Her virtues, graced with external gifts, Do breed love's settled passions in my heart And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So am I driven by breath of her renown Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive Where I may have fruition of her love.
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Forever, and forever, farewell, Cassius! If we do meet again, why, we shall smile If not, why then this parting was well made.
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The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger.
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O comfort-killing night, image of hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murders fell, Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!
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They that stand high have many blasts to shake them.
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Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.
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Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.
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Thou whoreson zed! Thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a jakes with him. *all cheer for Shakespearean insults*
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But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.
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Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow, And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow Thou canst help time to furrow me with age, But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage.
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Who seeks, and will not take, when once 'tis offer'd, Shall never find it more.
William Shakespeare
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But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts whereof I take this that you call love to bea sect or scion.... It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will.
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To wilful men, the injuries that they themselves procure must be their schoolmasters.
William Shakespeare
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Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
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My rage is gone, And I am struck with sorrow. Take him up. Help, three o' th' chiefest soldiers I'll be one. Beat thou the drum, that it speaks mournfully, Trail your steel spikes. Though in this city he Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, Which to this hour bewail the injury, Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist.
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I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.
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Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee? BEATRICE Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me. BENEDICK O, stay but till then! BEATRICE 'Then' is spoken fare you well now... (Much Ado About Nothing)
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Tongues I'll hang on every tree That shall civil sayings show. . . .
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His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend. His backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract.
William Shakespeare