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By God, I cannot flatter, I do defy The tongues of soothers! but a braver place In my heart's love hath no man than yourself. Nay, task me to my word approve me, lord.

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
Defy
Lord
Tongues
Word
Place
Approve
Cannot
Flattery
Heart
Hath
Men
Task
Braver
Love
Tongue
Flatter
Tasks

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O excellent! I love long life better than figs.
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I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
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Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repair Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen Neither in inward worth nor outward fair Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
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Slander lives upon succession, For ever housed where it gets possession.
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Music can minister to minds diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with its sweet oblivious antidote, cleanse the full bosom of all perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart.
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Some report a sea-maid spawn'd him some that he was begot between two stock-fishes. But it is certain that when he makes water his urine is congealed ice.
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By heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be mekancholy.
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Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
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Speak comfortable words.
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Our very eyes Are sometimes, like our judgments, blind.
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Can one desire too much of a good thing?
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This sleep is sound indeed this is a sleep That from this golden rigol hath divorc'd So many English kings.
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No profit grows where no pleasure is taken.
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I must have liberty Withal, as large a charter as the wind, To blow on whom I please, for so fools have.
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He is the half part of a blessed man, Left to be finished by such as she And she a fair divided excellence, Whose fullness of perfection lies in him.
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In thy foul throat thou liest.
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O no, thy love though much, is not so great, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.
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Those that much covet are with gain so fond, For what they have not, that which they possess They scatter and unloose it from their bond, And so, by hoping more, they have but less Or, gaining more, the profit of excess Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain, That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.
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Discharge my followers let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.
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