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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought

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
Doe
Resolution
Make
Native
Cast
Casts
Thus
Hue
Conscience
Cowards
Speech
Coward
Thought
Pale

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Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house as your pearl in your foul oyster.
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Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me?
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Sometimes when we are labeled, when we are branded our brand becomes our calling.
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What light through yonder window breaks?
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These are the forgeries of jealousy And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.
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'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed
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Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I every man to his business.
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How strange or odd some'er I bear myself, As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on.
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If I had my mouth, I would bite if I had my liberty, I would do my liking. In the meantime, let me be that I am, and seek not toalter me.
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I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.
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Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.
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Who wooed in haste, and means to wed at leisure.
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I have almost forgotten the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool’d to hear a night-shriek and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in’t: I have supt full with horrors Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, cannot once start me.
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As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods they kill us for their sport.
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For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings... All murdered for within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king, keeps Death his court... and with a little pin bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!
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This day I breathed first: time is come round, And where I did begin there shall I end My life is run his compass.
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I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.
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