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God grant us patience!

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
Difficult
Grant
Grants
Patience

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The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree.
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Commit the oldest sins the newest kind of ways.
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At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth But like of each thing that in season grows.
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Well-apparel'd April on the heel Of limping Winter treads.
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O my good lord, that comfort comes too late, 'Tis like a pardon after execution. That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me But now I am past all comforts here but prayers.
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Every inordinate cup is unbless'd, and the ingredient is a devil.
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If they love they know not why, they hate upon no better ground, they hate upon no better a ground
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He hath not eat paper, as it were he hath not drunk ink his intellect is not replenished he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts. (Shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost, IV)
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I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier.
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True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.
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How many things by season seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection!
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O, reason not the need!
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Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate
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Making night hideous.
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Pain pays the income of each precious thing.
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Lay her i' the earth: And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be, When thou liest howling. HAMLET. What, the fair Ophelia! QUEEN GERTRUDE. Sweets to the sweet: farewell!
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Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day.
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The love of heaven makes one heavenly.
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Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
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The seasons change their manners, as the year Had found some months asleep and leapt them over.
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