Quote

May never glorious sun reflex his beams Upon the country where you make abode! But darkness and the gloomy shade of death Environ you till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves.

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
Country
Drive
Gloomy
Make
Despair
Beam
Never
Sun
Mischief
Darkness
Necks
Break
Shade
Reflex
Upon
Hang
Beams
Death
Glorious
Reflexes
May
Till
Abode

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I do not know What kind of my obedience I should tender. More than my all is nothing nor my prayers Are not words holy hallowed, nor my wishes More worth than empty vanities yet prayers and wishes Are all I can return.
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Experience is by industry achieved, And perfected by the swift course of time.
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Beware of entrance to a quarrel, but, being in, bear t that th' opposed may beware of thee.
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But jealous souls will not be answered so, They are not ever jealous for the cause, But jealous for they're jealous. 'Tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself.
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Say, thou art mine and ever, My love, as it begins, shall so persevere
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There is no vice so simple but assumes some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
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Manhood is melted into courtesies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones, too.
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Many that are not mad have, sure, more lack of reason.
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Ships are but boards, sailors but men there be land-rats and water-rats, water-thieves and land-thieves, I mean pirates, and thenthere is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks.
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The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down.
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There is Throats to be cut, and Works to be done.
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A Devil, a born Devil on whose nature, nurture can never stick, on whom my pain, humanly taken, all lost, quite lost.
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Ay beauty's princely majesty is such, Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.
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Fear and niceness, the handmaids of all women, or more truly, woman its pretty self.
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Look to her, Moor, if thou has eyes to see. She has deceived her father, and may thee.
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The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy his legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure.
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I 'gin to be aweary of the sun, And wish th' estate o' th' world were now undone.
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Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.
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This is the short and the long of it.
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So many miseries have craz'd my voice, That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.
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