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So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown When judges have been babes great floods have flown From simple sources, and great seas have dried When miracles have by the greatest been denied.

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
Source
Miracles
Writ
Holy
Shown
Floods
Greatest
Hath
Dried
Results
Denied
Seas
Simple
Miracle
Babe
Great
Sea
Judges
Judging
Sources
Babes
Judgment
Flood
Flown

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Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency?
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O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love... 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.
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Opinion's but a fool, that makes us scan The outward habit by the inward man.
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By my troth, I care not a man can die but once we owe God a death and let it go which way it will he that dies this year is quit for the next
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I almost die for food, and let me have it!
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Had it pleas'd heaven To try me with affliction * * * I should have found in some place of my soul A drop of patience.
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His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.
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The fool multitude, that choose by show, not learning more than the fond eye doth teach.
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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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Ingratitude is monstrous.
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The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger.
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You kiss by th' book.
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In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.
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...an old man is twice a child.
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To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, Such seems your beauty still.
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Love bears it out even to the edge of doom.
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I had rather live with cheese and garlic in a windmill.
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So many horrid Ghosts.
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You are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any.
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