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What's done is done. The joy is in the doing.

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
Love
Joy
Done

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Speak, what trade art thou? Why, sir, a carpenter. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What does thou with thy best apparel on?
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Accommodated that is, when a man is, as they say, accommodated or when a man is, being, whereby a' may be thought to be accommodated,?which is an excellent thing.
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For he was likely, had he been put on, to have proved most royally.
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Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more Or close the wall with our English dead.
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Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules, but beware instinct. The lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter. I was a coward on instinct.
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Take pains. Be perfect.
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I will be master of what is mine own: She is my goods, my chattels she is my house, My household stuff, my field, my barn, My horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing.
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How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.
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I can see he's not in your good books,' said the messenger. 'No, and if he were I would burn my library.
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Too much to know is to know nought but fame And every godfather can give a name.
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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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Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now.
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What soilders whey-face? The English for so please you. Take thy face hence.
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Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come make her laugh at that.
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By God, I cannot flatter, I do defy The tongues of soothers! but a braver place In my heart's love hath no man than yourself. Nay, task me to my word approve me, lord.
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O King, believe not this hard-hearted man!
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He is white-livered and red-faced.
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Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live regist'red upon our brazen tombs And then grace us in the disgrace of death When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, Th' endeavor of this present breath may buy That honor which shall bate his scythe's keen edge And make us heirs of all eternity.
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Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament: They are but beggars that can count their worth But my true love is grown to such excess, I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth.
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Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more Or close the wall up with our English dead! In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger.
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