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For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
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
Tongue
Though
Speak
Organ
Miraculous
Organs
Murder
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For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
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Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep.
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I can hardly forbear hurling things at him.
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That, sir, which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack, when it begins to rain, And leave thee in a storm.
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When a father gives to his son, both laugh when a son gives to his father, both cry.
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I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.
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so full of shapes is fancy
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Dost thou love hawking? Thou hast hawks will soar Above the morning lark.
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The smallest worm will turn being trodden on, And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.
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I thank you all and here dismiss you all, and to the love and favor of my country commit myself, my person, and the cause.
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This feather stirs she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.
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Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
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What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel? *Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*
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He is white-livered and red-faced.
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Leave us to our free election.
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Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye.
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Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.
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Diseased Nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions.
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These are the forgeries of jealousy And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.
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They are hare-brain'd slaves.
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