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Whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise.

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
Deeds
Praise
Pride
Whatever
Devours
Praises
Deed

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Things done well and with a care, exempt themselves from fear.
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Who could refrain that had a heart to love and in that heart courage to make love known?
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Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep', the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast...
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The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.
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Unsubstantial Death is amorous.
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Falsehood falsehood cures
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Too nice, and yet too true!
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And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, millions of mischiefs.
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O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! - Cassio (Act II, Scene iii)
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The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.
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My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.
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Come, go with us, speak fair you may salve so, Not what is dangerous present, but the los Of what is past.
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Extreme fear can neither fight nor fly.
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For by his face straight shall you know his heart.
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Men that make Envy and crooked malice nourishment, Dare bite the best.
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Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears: Look, when I vow, I weep and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?
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My father names me Autolycus, who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.
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Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
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Blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled, That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please.
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The wildest hath not such a heart as you. Run when you will, the story shall be changed: Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase The dove pursues the griffin the mild hind Makes speed to catch the tiger bootless speed, When cowardice pursues and valour flies.
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