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Truth hath a quiet breast.
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
Breast
Breasts
Hath
Quiet
Truth
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Mend when thou canst be better at thy leisure.
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Liberty plucks justice by the nose The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart Goes all decorum.
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All's well that ends well still the fine's the crown. Whate'er the course, the end is the renown.
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Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.
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Tis a happy thing To be the father unto many sons.
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Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty.
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I'll have no husband, if you be not he.
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Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All in the morn betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your valentine.
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Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard.
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And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
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A heavier task could not have been impos'd, Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable.
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The loyalty, well held to fools, does make Our faith mere folly.
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Things at the worst will cease or else climb upward To what they were before.
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Men at some time are masters of their fates.
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How soar sweet music is, when time is broke, and no proportion kept!
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The error of our eye directs our mind. What error leads must err.
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Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.
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I am disgraced, impeached, and baffled here, Pierced to the soul with slander's venomed spear.
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Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly a flower that dies when it begins to bud a doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.
William Shakespeare
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.
William Shakespeare
