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So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men.

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
Shalt
Feeds
Feed
Thou
Death
Men

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Therefore it is most expedient for the wise, if Don Worm (his conscience) find no impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself.
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As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown.
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Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.
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Doubt is a thief that often makes us fear to tread where we might have won.
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Absence doth sharpen love, presence strengthens it the one brings fuel, the other blows it till it burns clear.
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For now they kill me with a living death.
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Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.
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Hang him, swaggering rascal!
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A maiden hath no tongue--but thought.
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Even as one heat another heat expels, or as one nail by strength drives out another, so the remembrance of my former love is by a newer object quite forgotten.
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I am that merry wanderer of the night.
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And how his audit stands who knows, save Heaven?
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Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' th' season Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, Which some call nature's bastards.
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No profit grows where no pleasure is taken.
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To be direct and honest is not safe.
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Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.
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And my poor fool is hanged! No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more, Never, Never, Never, Never, Never! Pray you, undo this button.
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Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the search.
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