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Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.

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
Welcome
Winter
Summer
Full
Wish
Makes
Care
Thrice
Rare

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Fire that's closest kept burns most of all.
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Cry havoc! and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
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Swift as shadow, short as any dream
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My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.
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Death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!
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Macbeth to Witches: What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, And yet are on 't?
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for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)
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For there was never yet philosoper That could endure the toothache patiently, However they have writ the style of gods, And made a push at chance and sufferance.
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A flock of blessings light upon thy back
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No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. But I know none, and therefore am no beast.
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The trust I have is in mine innocence, and therefore am I bold and resolute.
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The wound of peace is surety, Surety secure but modest doubt is called The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To th' bottom of the worst.
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All that glitters is not gold.
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Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever,- One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never.
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Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.
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Nice customs curtsy to great kings.
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For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood: I only speak right on I tell you that which you yourselves do know.
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It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell.
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. . . nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it he died As one that had been studied in his death To throw away the dearest thing he owed, As 'twere a careless trifle.
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