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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
Grant
Grants
Patience
Difficult

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I know them, yea, And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple Scambling, out-facing, fashion-mong'ring boys, That lie, and cog, and flout, deprave, and slander, Go antickly, and show outward hideousness, And speak off half a dozen dangerous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst And this is all.
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The Dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands her service Are they inform'd of this?
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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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All hoods make not monks.
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And I will make it felony to drink small beer.
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Send danger from the east unto the west, so honor cross it from the north to south.
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We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail.
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Kindness nobler ever than revenge.
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Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form
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Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?
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Sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care.
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My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
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Know my name is lost, By treason's tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit Yet am I noble as the adversary I come to cope.
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They do not abuse the king that flatter him. For flattery is the bellows blows up sin The thing the which is flattered, but a spark To which that blast gives heat and stronger glowing.
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No visor does become black villainy so well as soft and tender flattery.
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What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!
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I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.
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Direct not him whose way himself will choose 'Tis breath not lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.
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A knavish speech sleeps in a fool's ear.
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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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