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Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.
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
Swords
Dew
Rust
Bright
Keep
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The Dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands her service Are they inform'd of this?
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The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes.
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What are you doing sister? / Killing swine.
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Love is too young to know what conscience is.
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Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you, undo this button.
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With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage.
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Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?
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Dirty days hath September April June and November From January up to May The rain it raineth every day All the rest have thirty-one Without a blessed gleam of sun And if any of them had two-and-thirty They'd be just as wet and twice as dirty. April hath put a spirit of youth in everything.
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A Devil, a born Devil on whose nature, nurture can never stick, on whom my pain, humanly taken, all lost, quite lost.
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Unsubstantial Death is amorous.
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A woman that is like a German clock, Still a-repairing, ever out of frame, And never going aright, being a watch, But being watched that it may still go right!
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Men so noble, However faulty, yet should find respect For what they have been: 'tis a cruelty To load a falling man.
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The will is deaf and hears no heedful friends.
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One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
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If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?
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Our content Is our best having.
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In sooth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me, you say it wearies you But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.
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What e'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time.
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Make not your thoughts your prisons.
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