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Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more.
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
Death
Best
Grossly
Thou
Rest
Sleep
Fear
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thus with a kiss I die
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Desire of having is the sin of covetousness.
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Every great drama has its foreshadow.
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Make the doors upon a woman's wit, and it will out at the casement shut that, and 'twill out at the key-hole stop that, 'twill fly with the smoke out at the chimney.
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Our wills and fates do so contrary run.
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I hope to see London once ere I die.
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Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school.
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Frame your mind to mirth and merriment which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.
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Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head?
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I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
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Men at sometime are the masters of their fate.
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Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma or a hideous dream.
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The happiest youth, viewing his progress through, What perils past, what crosses to ensue, Would shut the book, and sit him down and die.
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Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain.
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Set we forward let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly together. So through Lud's town march, And in the temple of the great Jupiter Our peace we'll ratify, seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were washed, with such a peace.
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This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.
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Bait the hook well. This fish will bite.
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He that wants money, means, and content is without three good friends.
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For now I stand as one upon a rock environed with a wilderness of sea, who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, expecting ever when some envious surge will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
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Rest you fair, good signior Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
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