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Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.

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
Boiled
Melancholy
Death

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There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.
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Better conquest never canst thou make than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts against giddy, loose suggestions.
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Not a whit, we defy augury: there's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come if it be not to come, it will be now if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.
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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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I cannot tell what the dickens his name is.
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To be direct and honest is not safe.
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Let's teach ourselves that honorable stop, Not to outsport discretion.
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Frailty, thy name is woman!
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What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!
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These cardinals trifle with me I abhor This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.
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The good I stand on is my truth and honesty.
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Now, neighbor confines, purge you of your scum! Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance, revel the night, rob, murder, and commit the oldest sins the newest kind of ways?
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Every fair from fair sometime declines
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I do oppose My patience to his fury, and am arm'd To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, The very tyranny and rage of his.
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Do not give dalliance too much rein the strongest oaths are straw to the fire in the blood.
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Like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring: when a' was naked, he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife.
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Rashly, And praised be rashness for it--let us know, Our indiscretion sometime serves us well When our deep plots do pall, and that should learn us There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will
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The instruments of darkness tell us truths.
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Now the good gods forbid That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude Towards her deserved children is enrolled In Jove's own book, like an unnatural dam Should now eat up her own!
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Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!
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