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I have shot mine arrow o'er the house And hurt my brother.
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
Hurt
House
Arrow
Arrows
Shot
Shots
Mines
Mine
Brother
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The miserable have no other medicine But only hope.
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Let men say we be men of good government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.
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Be as just and gracious unto me, As I am confident and kind to thee.
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Woe to that land that's governed by a child.
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This act is an ancient tale new told And, in the last repeating, troublesome, Being urged at a time unseasonable.
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The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows. They are polluted off'rings, more abhorred! Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.
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What valor were it, when a cur doth grin, for one to thrust his hand between his teeth, when he might spurn him with his foot away?
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Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come
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She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd, And I lov'd her that she did pity them
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Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.
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Love asks me no questions, and gives me endless support.
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The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.
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Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!
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If little faults proceeding on distemper Shall not be winked at, how shall we stretch our eye When capital crimes, chewed, swallowed, and digested, Appear before us?
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Like the lily That once was mistress of the field and flourished, I'll hang my head and perish.
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A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!
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I loved Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.
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There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger.
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Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.
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It is the witness still of excellency to put a strange face on his own perfection.
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