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What should a man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within's two hours.

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
Father
Mother
Two
Look
Cheerfully
Looks
Merry
Men
Died
Within
Hours

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The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.
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That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)
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Flesh and blood, You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition, Expell'd remorse and nature, who, with Sebastian- Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong- Would here have kill'd your king, I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art.
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Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on his back.
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I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.
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Reflection is the business of man a sense of his state is his first duty: but who remembereth himself in joy? Is it not in mercy then that sorrow is allotted unto us?
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For by his face straight shall you know his heart.
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What the great ones do, the less will prattle of
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But when the fox hath once got in his nose, He'll soon find means to make the body follow.
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All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral-- Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse And all things change them to the contrary.
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Who can be patient in extremes?
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Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God, My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.
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You have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser.
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Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow. Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, And put sullen black incontinent. I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. March sadly after. Grace my mournings here In weeping after this untimely bier.
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There's never a villain dwelling in all Denmark But he's an arrant knave.
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I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man.
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My love's more richer than my tongue.
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Great men should drink with harness on their throats.
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I do not know What kind of my obedience I should tender. More than my all is nothing nor my prayers Are not words holy hallowed, nor my wishes More worth than empty vanities yet prayers and wishes Are all I can return.
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The summer's flow'r is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die' But if that flow'r with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
William Shakespeare