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This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedler and retails his wares.

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
Fellow
Fellows
Please
Wares
Utters
Peas
Pigeons
Doth
Wit

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The heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre Observe degree, priority, and place, Insisture, course, proportion, season, form, Office, and custom, in all line of order.
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Small things make base men proud.
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O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. - Romeo -
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I'll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As is a man were author of himself And knew no other kin.
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As chaste as unsunned snow.
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Bid the dishonest man mend himself if he mend, he is no longer dishonest.
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Unless the old adage must be verified, That beggars mounted, run their horse to death.
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Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
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April ... hath put a spirit of youth in everything.
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Set your heart at rest. The fairyland buys not the child of me.
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Mine honor is my life, both grow in one. Take honor from me, and my life is done. Then, dear my liege, mine honor let me try In that I live, and for that I will die.
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Care I for the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man! Give me the spirit.
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A man should be what he seems.
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For a noble heart, the most precious gift becomes poor, when the giver stops loving.
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No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.
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Who can control his fate?
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Strikes deeper, grows with more pernicious root.
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Lord, what fools these mortals be!
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He does me double wrong That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue.
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So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.
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