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The tempter or the tempted, who sins most? Ha! Not she: nor doth she tempt: but it is I That, lying by the violet in the sun, Do as the carrion does, not as the flower, Corrupt with virtuous season.

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
Doe
Virtuous
Sins
Tempter
Season
Carrion
Seasons
Tempt
Sun
Violet
Sin
Doth
Flower
Corrupt
Lying
Tempted

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The appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony.
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Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen! Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head! Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood Amaze the welkin with your broken staves!
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Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud.
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If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul.
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Is this the generation of love? Hot blood, hot thoughts and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers?
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If there is a good will, there is great way.
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A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart.
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In springtime, the only pretty ring time Birds sing, hey ding A-ding, a-ding Sweet lovers love the spring—
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O most delicate fiend! Who is't can read a woman? Is there more?
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What e'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time.
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Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
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Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I ha' lost my reputation, I ha' lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial!
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O villains, vipers, dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!
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In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.
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Doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born.
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I swear again, I would not be a queen For all the world.
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Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile.
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