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The morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness.
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
Steals
Melting
Stealing
Dawn
Darkness
Morning
Upon
Night
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Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so Pardon is still the nurse of second woe.
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Sweets to the sweet.
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Thou hast her, France let her be thine, for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison.
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The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our own virtues.
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Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.
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For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.
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Much rain wears the marble.
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Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.
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Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.
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Perseverance... keeps honor bright: to have done, is to hang quite out of fashion, like a rusty nail in monumental mockery.
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And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
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I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
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In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.
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Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offense?
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A book? O, rare one, Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers.
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