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O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!

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
States
State
Steel
Bosom
Soul
Help
Strings
Bosoms
Heart
Free
Angels
Babe
Make
Born
Soft
Bows
Black
Knees
Stubborn
Death
Engaged
Wretched
Helping
Angel
Struggling
Art
Struggle
Repentance
Sinews

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it is my lady! *sighs* o, it is my love! o, that she knew she were! she speaks, yet she sais nothing. what of that? her eye discourses i will answer it. i am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, having some business, do entreat her eyes to twinkle in their spheres till they return.
William Shakespeare
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A good leg will fall a straight back will stoop a black beard will turn white a curl'd pate will grow bald a fair face will wither a full eye will wax hollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon or, rather, the sun, and not the moon, — for it shines bright, and never changes, but keeps his course truly.
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How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
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You know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard, And after scandal them.
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The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves, Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.
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O, let him pass. He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.
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Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
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Weed your better judgments of all opinion that grows rank in them.
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This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
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In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales Of woeful ages, long ago betid
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Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your dispositions to be married It is an honor that I dream not of
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It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion and all made of wishes, All adoration, duty, and observance, All humbleness, all patience and impatience, All purity, all trial, all observance
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When law can do no right, Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong.
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Soft pity enters an iron gate.
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What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.
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For such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, ye're so slight.
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Would I were dead, if God's good will were so, For what is in this world but grief and woe?
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Ay, is it not a language I speak?
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My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish'd this world's eternity.
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There's place and means for every man alive.
William Shakespeare