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Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypres let me be laid Fly away, fly away, breath I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

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
Come
Cruel
Laid
Breath
Breaths
Cypresses
Fairs
Slain
Fair
Maid
Death
Maids
Away
Fairness

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That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.
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If you shall marry, You give away this hand, and this is mine You give away heaven's vows, and those are mine You give away myself, which is known mine For I by vow am so embodied yours That she which marries you must marry me-- Either both or none.
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Weariness can snore upon the flint when resting sloth finds the down pillow hard.
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To die, to sleep - To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub, For in this sleep of death what dreams may come.
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Be like you thought our love would last too long, if it were chain'd together
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Let the end try the man.
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Don't judge a man's conscience by looking at his face cause he may have a bad heart.
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Guiltiness will speak, though tongues were out of use
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A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
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Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, but gold that's put to use more gold begets.
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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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What, keep a week away? Seven days and nights, Eightscore-eight hours, and lovers' absent hours More tedious than the dial eightscore times! O weary reckoning!
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If you would persuade, you must appeal to interest rather than intellect. We are advertis'd by our loving friends.
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So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
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This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, this Senior Junior, giant dwarf...Cupid.
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Anger is like A full hot horse, who being allowed his way, Self-mettle tires him.
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Go, write it in a martial hand be curst and brief it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and fun of invention: taunt him with the licence of ink: if thou thou'st him some thrice, it shall not be amiss and as many lies as will lie in thy shee.
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whats here a cup closed in my true loves hand poisin i see hath been his timeless end. oh churl drunk all and left no friendly drop to help me after. i will kiss thy lips some poisin doth hang on them, to help me die with a restorative. thy lips are warm. yea noise then ill be brief oh happy dagger this is thy sheath. there rust and let me die.
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All furnished, all in arms All plum'd like estridges that with the wind Bated like eagles having lately bathed Glittering in golden coats like images As full of spirit as the month of May And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
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