Quote

Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls Conscience is but a work that cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong in awe: Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law!

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
Dream
Souls
Soul
Conscience
Affright
Dreams
Babbling
Firsts
Arms
Devised
First
Law
Swords
Work
Use
Cowards
Strong
Awe
Keep
Coward

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Love comforteth like sunshine after rain, But Lust's effect is tempest after sun Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain, Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.
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I cannot do it without comp[u]ters.
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The instances that second marriage move Are base respects of thrift, but none of love.
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Every cloud engenders not a storm.
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Pardon's the word to all.
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For what I will, I will, and there an end.
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I'll give my jewels for a set of beads, My gorgeous palace for a hermitage, My gay apparel for an almsman's gown, My figured goblets for a dish of wood, My scepter for a palmer's walking staff My subjects for a pair of carved saints and my large kingdom for a little grave.
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O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world.
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Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!
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Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.
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Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.
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It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass, In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding Sweet lovers love the spring.
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For 'tis the sport to have the engineer Hoist with his own petar and't shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon.
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GLOUCESTER: Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, As I had rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smother'd. But God be thanked. . . .
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He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
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Jesu, Jesu, the mad days that I have spent! And to see how many of my old acquaintance are dead!
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Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror
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Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor for 'tis the mind that makes the body rich
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And in the morn and liquid dew of youth, Contagious blastments are are most imminent.
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I had rather chop this hand off at a blow, And with the other fling it at thy face.
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