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Things may serve long, but not serve ever.
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
Long
Things
Endurance
Serve
May
Ever
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Brevity is the soul of wit.
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Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone.
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Speak to me as to thy thinkings, As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts The worst of words.
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Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves.
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A turn or two I'll walk To still my beating mind.
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At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth But like of each thing that in season grows.
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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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There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings.
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The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance.
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He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.
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I cannot, nor I will not hold me still My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.
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O, I do not like that paying back, 'tis a double labor.
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Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engend'red in the eyes, With gazing fed, and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies.
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Rude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.
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You told a lie, an odious damned lie Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.
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Glory is like a circle in the water
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He's truly valiant that can wisely suffer The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs His outsides, to wear them like his raiment, carelessly, And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart, To bring it into danger.
William Shakespeare
A true repentance shuns the evil itself, more than the external suffering or the shame.
William Shakespeare
A thousand kisses buys my heart from me And pay them at thy leisure, one by one.
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My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.
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