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Light seeking light doth light of light beguile: So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes.

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
Grows
Eyes
Dark
Beguile
Lying
Doth
Eye
Seeking
Light
Losing
Find
Lies
Darkness

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I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.
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Time and the hour run through the roughest day.
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Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.
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Our enemies are our outward consciences.
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God defend the right.
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To be in love- where scorn is bought with groans, Coy looks with heart-sore sighs, one fading moment's mirth With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain If lost, why then a grievous labour won However, but a folly bought with wit, Or else a wit by folly vanquished.
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O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven
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Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale. Light thickens, and the crow Makes wing to th' rooky wood. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, While night's black agents to their prey do rouse.
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When thou cam'st first, Thou strok'st me and made much of me wouldst give me Water with berries in't and teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night and then I loved thee And showed thee all the qualities o' th' isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile.
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Women are not In their best fortunes strong, but want will perjure the ne'er-touched vestal.
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Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
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These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.
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I have lov'd her ever since I saw her and still I see her beautiful
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It easeth some, though none it ever cured, to think their dolour others have endured.
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I do not set my life at a pin's fee, And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself?
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Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, but thankful even for hate that is meant love.
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The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself
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