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O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh

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
Everlasting
Shakes
Flesh
Rest
Stars
Wearied
World
Yoke
Juliet
Shake

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Even as one heat another heat expels, or as one nail by strength drives out another, so the remembrance of my former love is by a newer object quite forgotten.
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Patch up thine old body for heaven.
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O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou has no name to be known by, let us call thee devil....O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! that we should, with joy, pleasance revel and applause, transform ourselves into beasts!
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Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold.
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Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.
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Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling.
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For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinched As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em.
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Who seeks, and will not take, when once 'tis offer'd, Shall never find it more.
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Women being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the walls.
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Were kisses all the joys in bed, One woman would another wed.
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The let-alone lies not in your good will.
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There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger.
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Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?
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Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep.
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Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy.
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But when I came, alas, to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day.
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To persevere In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness: 'tis unmanly grief.
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I am bewitched with the rogue's company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I'll be hanged.
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Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
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O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
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