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Behold the threaden sails, Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow'd sea, Breasting the lofty surge

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
Draw
Surge
Invisible
Creeping
Draws
Sails
Bottom
Borne
Sea
Behold
Wind
Lofty
Huge
Sail
Furrow
Ships
Bottoms

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Shine out fair sun, till I have bought a glass, That I may see my shadow as I pass.
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He is white-livered and red-faced.
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It comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him.
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When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.
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Who is it that can tell me who I am?
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CLEOPATRA: If it be love indeed, tell me how much. ANTONY: There's beggary in the love that can be reckoned. CLEOPATRA: I'll set a bourne how far to be belov'd. ANTONY: Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.
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To be, or not to be, that is the question.
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I must be cruel, only to be kind.
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Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.
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Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.
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one pain is cured by another. catch some new infection in your eye and the poison of the old one would die.
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It provokes the desire but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him and it mars him it sets him on and it takes him off.
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Take it in what sense thou wilt.
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Let me have men about me that are fat... Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.
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The Eyes are the window to your soul
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Good luck lies in odd numbers.
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So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him!
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My love is deep the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite.
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But whate'er I am, nor I nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be pleased 'til he be eased With being nothing.
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The will is infinite and the execution confin'd, the desire is boundless and the act a slave to limit.
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