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Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace.

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
Weeds
Weed
Grow
Grace
Grows
Small
Great
Apace
Herbs

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Honor, riches, marriage-blessing Long continuance, and increasing, Hourly joys be still upon you!
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Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
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If yon bethink yourself of any crime Unreconcil'd as yet to heaven and grace, Solicit for it straight.
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What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?
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Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears.
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As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.
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How slow This old moon wanes! she lingers my desires, Like to a stepdame, or a dowager, Long withering out a young man's revenue.
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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
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He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.
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For I am proverbed with a grandsire phrase.
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Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty Calls virtue hypocrite takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love, And sets a blister there makes marriage vows As false as dicers' oaths.
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My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
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Fie, fie upon her! There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her body.
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Sweet are the uses of adversity
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Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
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There's small choice in rotten apples.
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What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish a very ancient and fishlike smell a kind of not of the newest poor-John. A strange fish!
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On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily.
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A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers.
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Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth. O these deliberate fools!
William Shakespeare