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But here's the joy: my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery!

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
Excitement
Sweet
Friend
Joy
Flattery

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The coward dies a thousand deaths, the valiant, only once!
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Dreams, indeed, are ambition for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. And I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow's shadow.
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Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail, And say there is no sin but to be rich And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary
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As many arrows, loosed several ways, come to one mark...so many a thousand actions, once afoot, end in one purpose.
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If wishes would prevail with me, my purpose should not fail with me.
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Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale. Light thickens, and the crow Makes wing to th' rooky wood. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, While night's black agents to their prey do rouse.
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Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth.
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Cowards die many times before their deaths the valiant never taste of death but once.
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As full of spirit as the month of May, and as gorgeous as the sun in Midsummer.
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But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.
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It warms the very sickness in my heart, That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, Thus diddest thou
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I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
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Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.
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. . . nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it he died As one that had been studied in his death To throw away the dearest thing he owed, As 'twere a careless trifle.
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A maiden hath no tongue--but thought.
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I have been studying how I may compare This prison where I live unto the world And, for because the world is populous, And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.
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The plants look up to heaven, from whence they have their nourishment.
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