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The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew, for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars.

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
Heavens
Covering
Heads
Worthy
Stars
Heaven
Fall
Benediction
Like
Dew

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But most it is presumption in us when the help of heaven we count the act of men.
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Come now, what masques, what dances shall we have To wear away this long age of three hours Between our after-supper and bedtime?
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To be once in doubt Is once to be resolved.
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Ay, but to die and go we know not where To lie in cold obstrution and to rot This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.
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No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.
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Remuneration! O! That's the Latin word for three farthings
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Nor shall this peace sleep with her but as when The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, Her ashes new-create another heir As great in admiration as herself.
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Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter.
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Cowards die many times before their deaths the valiant never taste of death but once.
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A virtuous and a Christianlike conclusion-- To pray for them that have done scathe to us.
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New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous (Nay, let em be unmanly), yet are followed.
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The sudden hand of Death close up mine eye!
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What is aught but as 'tis valued?
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This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
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Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie, And young affection gapes to be his heir That fair for which love groan'd for and would die, With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.
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O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts. Possess them not with fear.
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Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? Polonius: By the mass, and ‘tis like a camel, indeed. Hamlet: Methinks it is like a weasel. Polonius: It is backed like a weasel. Hamlet: Or like a whale? Polonius: Very like a whale.
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Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!
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If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud you again.
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