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Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds.

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
Proud
Juliet
Thank
Gratitude

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There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
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The spirit of a youth That means to be of note, begins betimes.
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Beauty lives with kindness.
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Was ever woman in this humour wooed? Was ever woman in this humour won?
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I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind.
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So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.
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To some kind of men their graces serve them but as enemies.
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Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All in the morn betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your valentine.
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Know more than other. Work more than other. Expect less than other
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Covering discretion with a coat of folly.
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A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching!
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For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings... All murdered for within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king, keeps Death his court... and with a little pin bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!
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Eternity was in our lips and eyes, Bliss in our brows' bent none our parts so poor But was a race of heaven.
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Fairies, black, grey, green, and white, You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, You orphan heirs of fixed destiny, Attend your office and your quality.
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O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip Hath virgined it e'er since.
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If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion.
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I can see his pride Peep through each part of him.
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I have a kind soul that would give you thanks. And knows not how to do it but with tears.
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Give sorrow words the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.
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Though I am not naturally honest, I am sometimes so by chance.
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