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Greatest scandal waits on greatest state.

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
Waiting
State
States
Waits
Scandal
Greatest

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Men must learn now with pity to dispense For policy sits above conscience.
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They that touch pitch will be defiled.
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Tis ever common That men are merriest when they are from home.
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She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.
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Let no such man be trusted.
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Then is it sin to rush into the secret house of death. Ere death dare come to us?
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But love, first learned in a lady's eyes, Lives not alone immured in the brain But, with the motion of all elements, Courses as swift as thought in every power, And gives to every power a double power, Above their functions and their offices.
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The silence often of pure innocence persuades when speaking fails.
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For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood: I only speak right on I tell you that which you yourselves do know.
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Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
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I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed!
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To hold, as 't were, the mirror up to nature.
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Hereditary sloth instructs me.
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Men from children nothing differ.
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Nay, had I pow'r, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth.
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Give it an understanding, but no tongue.
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My cake is dough, but I'll in among the rest, Out of hope of all but my share of the feast.
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For such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, ye're so slight.
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I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.
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So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow's heavenly it strikes where it doth love.
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