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Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?
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
Love
Sting
Glory
Death
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In limited professions there's boundless theft.
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Though justice be thy plea consider this, that in the course of justice none of us should see salvation.
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Here was a Caesar! When comes such another?
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We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh few are angels.
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Stars, hide your fires Let not light see my black and deep desires.
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What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.
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It is not night when I do see your face, Therefore I think I am not in the night Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, For you in my respect are all the world: Then how can it be said I am alone, When all the world is here to look on me?
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For what is wedlock forced but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife? Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, And is a pattern of celestial peace.
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Every good servant does not all commands.
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We cannot conceive of matter being formed of nothing, since things require a seed to start from... Therefore there is not anything which returns to nothing, but all things return dissolved into their elements.
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Lay aside life-harming heaviness, And entertain a cheerful disposition.
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Stones have been known to move and trees to speak.
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The cunning livery of hell.
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He receives comfort like cold porridge.
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Here is a rural fellow that will not be denied your Highness' presence: he brings you figs.
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Greatness, once fallen out with fortune, must fall out with men too.
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All pride is willing pride.
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Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliances are relieved, Or not at all.
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Bait the hook well. This fish will bite.
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Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?
William Shakespeare
