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Rumor is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.

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
Rumor
Blown
Pipe
Conjectures
Jealousies
Rumours
Conjecture

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In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.
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When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious And Brutus is an honourable man.
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Assure thee, if I do vow a friendship, I'll perform it to the last article. --Othello, Act III, Scene iii
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Heaven give you many, many merry days.
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I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot Follow your spirit: and upon this charge, Cry — God for Harry! England and Saint George!
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Love is a spirit all compact of fire.
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And worse I may be yet: the worst is not So long as we can say 'This is the worst.
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Then with the losers let it sympathize, For nothing can seem foul to those that win.
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Four days will quickly steep themselves in nights Four nights will quickly dream away the time And then the moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven, shall behold the night of our solemnities.
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Lawless are they that make their wills their law.
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Things in motion sooner catch the eye than what not stirs.
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My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world!
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O the world is but a word were it all yours to give it in a breath, how quickly were it gone!
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O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
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Why, then the world ’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.
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Full many a lady I have eyed with best regard, and many a time Th' harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear for several virtues Have I liked several women never any With so full soul but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed, And put it to the foil.
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Nor aught so good but strained from that fair use, Revolts from true birth stumbling on abuse.
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Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops. Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.
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