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Are there no stones in heaven But what serves for thunder?

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
Thunder
Serves
Stones
Heaven

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You, and your lady, Take from my heart all thankfulness!
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He that is robbed, not wanting what is stolen, him not know t, and he's not robbed at all.
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Coal-black is better than another hue In that it scorns to bear another hue For all the water in the ocean Can never turn the swan's black legs to white, Although she lave them hourly in the flood.
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Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil
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But love, first learned in a lady's eyes, Lives not alone immured in the brain But, with the motion of all elements, Courses as swift as thought in every power, And gives to every power a double power, Above their functions and their offices.
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Ideas are the very coinage of your brain.
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He's of the colour of the nutmeg. And of the heat of the ginger.... he is pure air and fire and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him he is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts.
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Why, thou owest god a death.
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Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds.
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For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger At whose approach ghosts wandring here and there Troop home to church-yards.... For fear lest day should look their shames upon, They willfully exile themselves from light, And must for aye consort with black brow'd night.
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You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.
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You Jig, you amble, and you lisp.
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This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
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'Tis the soldier's life to have their balmy slumbers waked with strife.
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She's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed She is a woman, therefore to be won.
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Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.
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Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.
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I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.
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Et tu Brute! (You too, Brutus!)
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