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The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream And greedily devour the treacherous bait.

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
Fish
Devour
Fishes
Bait
Boat
Treacherous
Pleasant
Stream
Golden
Lakes
Greedily
Rivers
Fishing
Oars
Sea
Streams
Oar
Cutting
Silver
Angling

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I thank God I am as honest as any man living that is an old man and no honester than I.
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Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!
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JAQUES: Rosalind is your love's name? ORLANDO: Yes, just. JAQUES: I do not like her name. ORLANDO: There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.
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I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.
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You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.
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Be just, and fear not.
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By my soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man to alter me.
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I see men's judgments are A parcel of their fortunes and things outward Do draw the inward quality after them, To suffer all alike.
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Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.
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I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge.
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Now no way can I stray Save back to England, all the world's my way.
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Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.
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There's nothing in this world can make me joy: Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste That it yields nought but shame and bitterness.
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Making night hideous.
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The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.
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We that are true lovers run into strange capers.
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GLOUCESTER: I do not know that Englishman alive With whom my soul is any jot at odds, More than the infant that is born to-night: I thank my God for my humility.
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Wise men never sit and wail their loss, but cheerily seek how to redress their harms.
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Though inclination be as sharp as will, My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect.
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Even through the hollow eyes of death I spy life peering.
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