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Weep I cannot But my heart bleeds.

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
Weep
Grief
Cannot
Heart
Bleeds

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Never anything can be amiss, when simpleness and duty tender it.
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You have witchcraft in your lips, there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council and they should sooner persuade Harry of England than a general petition of monarchs.
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I'll note you in my book of memory.
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Go, bid the soldiers shoot.
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God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.
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Can it be chat modesty may more betray Our sense than woman's lightness?
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Every cloud engenders not a storm.
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Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning One pain is less'ned by another's anguish Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning One desperate grief cures with another's languish.
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If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark
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Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!
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For conspiracy, I know not how it tastes, though it be dished For me to try how.
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The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.
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Take all the swift advantage of the hours.
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Instinct is a great matter. I was now a coward on instinct.
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Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
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The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, A goodly apple rotten at the heart. O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!
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Most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath.
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I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.
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Come, Let's have one other gaudy night. Call to me All my sad captains. Fill our bowls once more. Let's mock the midnight bell.
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How strange or odd some'er I bear myself, As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on.
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