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Rashly, And praised be rashness for it--let us know, Our indiscretion sometime serves us well When our deep plots do pall, and that should learn us There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will

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
Learn
Sometime
Ends
Serves
Wells
Divinity
Indiscretion
Well
Providence
Rashly
Plot
Pall
Rough
Rashness
Shapes
Plots
Deep
Praised

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The devil knew what he did when he made men politic he crossed himself by it.
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Ay beauty's princely majesty is such, Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.
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Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death.
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Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding they brav'ry in their rotten smoke?
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There is none of my uncle's marks upon you he taught me how to know a man in love in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.
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Forget, forgive conclude, and be agreed.
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He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks.
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The force of his own merit makes his way-a gift that heaven gives for him.
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Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
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There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently
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Two households, both alike in dignity In fair Verona, where we lay our scene From ancient grudge break to new mutiny Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life Whose misadventured piteous overthrows Do with their death bury their parents' strife.
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Th abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power.
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I do begin to have bloody thoughts.
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Tush! Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate Talkers are no good doers: be assured We come to use our hands and not our tongues.
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What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?
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Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.
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Ay me! sad hours seem long.
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Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.
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Love sought is good, but given unsought, is better.
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