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I do love My country's good with a respect more tender, More holy and profound, then mine own life, My dear wife's estimate, her womb increase, And treasure of my loins.
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
Wife
Treasure
Country
Profound
Good
Dear
Love
Mines
Loins
Life
Mine
Estimate
Increase
Womb
Holy
Tender
Respect
Patriotism
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Be as just and gracious unto me, As I am confident and kind to thee.
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Love is . . . a madness most discreet
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The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
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A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.
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We do not keep the outward form of order, where there is deep disorder in the mind.
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No might nor greatness in mortality Can censure 'scape back- wounding calumny The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue?
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If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal of his friend?
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For there's no motion That tends to vice in man, but I affirm It is the woman's part.
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Don't judge a man's conscience by looking at his face cause he may have a bad heart.
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. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.
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Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age have left me naked to mine enemies.
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I can hardly forbear hurling things at him.
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Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business, Hath raised me from my bed nor doth the general care Take hold on me for my particular grief Is of so floodgate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself.
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Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh And sees fast-by a butcher with an axe, But will suspect 'twas he that made the slaughter?
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Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.
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But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.
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We must not stint Our necessary actions in the fear To cope malicious censurers, which ever, As rav'nous fishes, do a vessel follow That is new-trimmed, but benefit no further Than vainly longing.
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