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Slander lives upon succession, For ever housed where it gets possession.
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
Housed
Slander
Succession
Possession
Gets
Upon
Lives
Ever
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Each present joy or sorrow seems the chief.
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Words are grown so false, I am loath to prove reason with them.
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Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.
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Base is the slave that pays.
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For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?
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Tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age, Conferring them on younger strengths, while we Unburdened crawl toward death.
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I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that's in me should set hell on fire.
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You'd be so lean, that blast of January Would blow you through and through. Now, my fair'st friend, I would I had some flowers o' the spring that might Become your time of day.
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We will have rings and things and fine array
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How use doth breed a habit in a man.
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Titus Andronicus, my lord the Emperor Sends thee this word, that, if thou love thy sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus, Or any one of you, chop off your hand And send it to the King: he for the same Will send thee hither both thy sons alive, And that shall be the ransom for their fault.
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Headstrong liberty is lashed with woe.
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Love's mind of judgment rarely hath a taste: Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.
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If't be summer news, Smile to't before if winterly, thou need'st But keep that count'nance still.
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I scorn you, scurvy companion.
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For youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it wears, Than settled age his sables, and his weeds Importing health and graveness.
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This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change, For 'tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.
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I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways.
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Thou ominous and fearful owl of death.
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