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Thus can the demigod Authority Make us pay down for our offense by weight The words of heaven on whom it will, it will, On whom it will not, so: yet still 'tis just.

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
Authority
Pay
Heaven
Words
Demigod
Stills
Demigods
Still
Offense
Make
Thus
Weight

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Live how we can, yet die we must.
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He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man. He that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man, I am not for him.
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a young woman in love always looks like patience on a monument smiling at grief
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Many a true word hath been spoken in jest.
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Things won are done, joy's soul lies in the doing.
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Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds.
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Beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time.
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And writers say, as the most forward bud Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, Even so by love the young and tender wit Is turn'd to folly, blasting in the bud, Losing his verdure even in the prime, And all the fair effects of future hopes.
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Make use of time, let not advantage slip Beauty within itself should not be wasted: Fair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime Rot and consume themselves in little time.
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Thou frothy tickle-brained hedge-pig!
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A glooming peace this morning with it brings The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
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True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.
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Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear.
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A very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience.
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Come my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers they hold up Adam's profession.
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Where the greater malady is fixed, The lesser is scarce felt.
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How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted over In states unborn and accents yet unknown!
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Thou weedy elf-skinned canker-blossom!
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She dreams of him that has forgot her love You dote on her that cares not for your love. 'Tis pity love should be so contrary And thinking of it makes me cry 'alas!
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He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea singing aloud Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.
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