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It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as you will desire and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire upon his death's-bed-Got deliver to a joyful resurrections!

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
Seven
Moneys
Gold
Deliver
Hundred
Joyful
Upon
Resurrection
Desire
Pounds
Death
Silver
Persons
Excitement
Person
Bed
Grandsire

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A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd, Quoted, and sign'd, to do a deed of shame.
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O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet fondly loves!
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And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
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A ministering angel shall my sister be.
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In delay there lies no plenty.
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Well, God's above all and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.
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Slander, whose whisper over the world's diameter, as level as the cannon to its blank, transports its poisoned shot.
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What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.
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Do not plunge thyself too far in anger.
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How can tyrants safely govern home, Unless abroad they purchase great alliance.
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In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. -Sonnet 73
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Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!
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Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
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Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.
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Full fathom five thy father lies Of his bones are coral made Those are pearls that were his eyes Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Ding-dong. Hark! now I hear them — Ding-dong, bell.
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So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow's heavenly it strikes where it doth love.
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Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest.
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The iron tongue of Midnight hath told twelve lovers, to bed 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outstep the coming morn as much as we this night over-watch'd.
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