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The sweat of industry would dry and die, But for the end it works to.
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
Dry
Sweat
Works
Industry
Dies
Ends
Would
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Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes.
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Fruits that blossom first will first be ripe.
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Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?
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I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.
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But fish not with this melancholy bait For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.
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Men's evil manners live in brass their virtues we write in water.
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A light heart lives long.
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Greatest scandal waits on greatest state.
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Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other side
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The urging of that word, judgment, hath bred a kind of remorse in me.
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Let every man be master of his time.
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Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard.
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Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more Or close the wall with our English dead.
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Myself will straight aboard, and to the state This heavy act with heavy heart relate.
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A ministering angel shall my sister be.
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Each present joy or sorrow seems the chief.
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So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
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A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart.
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Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.
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Virtue is chok'd with foul ambition
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