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Pray, do not mock me. I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less And, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind.

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
Age
Fond
Less
Foolish
Perfect
Pray
Fear
Hour
Mind
Praying
Men
Deal
Plainly
Deals
Upward
Hours
Mock

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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 hold the world but as the world, Gratiano!
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Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.
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I long To hear the story of your life, which must Take the ear strangely.
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It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
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I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.
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I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an If, as, 'If you said so, then I said so' and they shook hands and swore brothers. Your If is the only peacemaker much virtue in If.
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All that glisters is not gold Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.
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Neither a borrower nor a lender be.
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My grief lies all within, And these external manners of lament Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swells with silence in the tortured soul.
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Like the lily That once was mistress of the field and flourished, I'll hang my head and perish.
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My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree Murder, stern murder in the dir'st degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, 'Guilty!, guilty!
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...Vaulted with such ease into his seat, As if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds, To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, And witch the world with noble horsemanship.
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Nothing routs us but the villainy of our fears.
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O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
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To be slow in words is a woman's only virtue.
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Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken. It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
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