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Who alone suffers suffers most i' th' mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.

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
Free
Hath
Shows
Leaving
Much
Grief
Sufferance
Mind
Behinds
Suffers
Things
Behind
Bearing
Alone
Fellowship
Suffering
Doth
Happy
Mates

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To pore upon a book, to seek the light of truth.
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My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
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We have some salt of our youth in us.
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Death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!
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When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh! the doxy, over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
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The venom clamours of a jealous woman poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth.
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For I am nothing if not critical.
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What is aught but as 'tis valued?
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Proper deformity shows not in the fiend So horrid as in woman.
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Murder most foul, as in the best it it But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
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I wonder that you will still be talking. Nobody marks you.
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You'd be so lean, that blast of January Would blow you through and through. Now, my fair'st friend, I would I had some flowers o' the spring that might Become your time of day.
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Right joyous are we to behold your face, Most worthy brother England fairly met!
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Lay on, McDuff, and be damned he who first cries, 'Hold, enough!
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Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep?
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This is a gift that I have, simple, simple a foolish extravagant spirit full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion.
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And then he drew a dial from his poke, And looking with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock: Thus we may see', Quoth he, 'how the world wags: 'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more 'twill be eleven And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, And then from hour to hour we rot and rot.
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O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a vixen when she went to school And though she be but little, she is fierce.
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And nature must obey necessity.
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Well could he ride, and often men would say, That horse his mettle from his rider takes: Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes! And controversy hence a question takes, Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manage by the well-doing steed.
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