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The love of wicked men converts to fear That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both To worthy danger and deserved death.

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
Love
Worthy
Danger
Turns
Hate
Fear
Death
Converts
Change
Deserved
Men
Wicked

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When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.
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Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever,- One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never.
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We that are true lovers run into strange capers.
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I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways.
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What a fool honesty is.
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Men so noble, However faulty, yet should find respect For what they have been: 'tis a cruelty To load a falling man.
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Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward! Thou little valiant, great in villainy! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou Fortune's champion, that dost never fight But where her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety.
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O sir, you are old nature in you stands on the very verge of her confine you should be ruled and led by some discretion, that discerns your fate better than you yourself.
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Gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.
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Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.
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No, no 'tis all men's office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man's virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel: My griefs cry louder than advertisement.
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I love you more than word can wield the matter, Dearer than eye-sight, space and liberty
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Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor
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Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet--nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.
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Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.
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The present eye praises the present object.
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What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.
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Why, look you, I am whipp'd and scourg'd with rods, Nettled and stung with pismires[nettles], when I hear Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.
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O no, thy love though much, is not so great, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.
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What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
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