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The world is grown so bad, That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.
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
Grown
Dare
Make
World
Wrens
Perch
Eagles
Prey
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The eagle suffers little birds to sing.
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The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept.
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Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent.
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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.
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Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound And through this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
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All that glitters is not gold.
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My meaning in saying he is a good man, is to have you understand me that he is sufficient.
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Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.
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The plants look up to heaven, from whence they have their nourishment.
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Sometimes, less is more.
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...too much sadness hath congealed your blood,And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.
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There is a history in all men's lives.
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A pal is one that is aware you while you are, understands where you have already been, accepts whatever you are becoming, and continue to, carefully means that you can develop.
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My desolation does begin to make A better life.
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I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born.
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Omittance is no quittance.
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Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
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Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
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What fates impose, that men must needs abide it boots not to resist both wind and tide.
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