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But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, Nature and Fortune join'd to make thee great: Of Nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose but Fortune, O!

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
Great
Rose
Boast
Make
Fortune
Fairness
Dear
Join
Birth
Gifts
Boys
Fairs
Half
Fair
Mayst
Art
Thou
Lilies
Nature
Thee
Blown

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Let still woman take An elder than herself: so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart, For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner to be lost and warn, Than women's are.
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O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou has no name to be known by, let us call thee devil....O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! that we should, with joy, pleasance revel and applause, transform ourselves into beasts!
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O Ceremony, show me but thy worth? What is thy soul of adoration? Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form, Creating awe and fear in other men?
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Bell, book and candle shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on.
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Our praises are our wages.
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All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
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O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world, And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice, Which scorns a modern invocation.
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Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency?
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Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
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World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.
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A glooming peace this morning with it brings The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
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I'll teach you differences.
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My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.
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The time of universal peace is near. Prove this a prosp'rous day, the three-nooked world Shall bear the olive freely.
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Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud And after summer evermore succeeds Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold: So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.
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I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force. Ourselves we do not owe. What is decreed must be and be this so.
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The nature of bad news affects the teller.
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Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great. Oh! I could hew up rocks, and fight with flint.
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To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.
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I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes—and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle’s.
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