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Ornament is but the guiled shore to a most dangerous sea.

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
Shore
Sea
Dangerous
Ornament
Ornaments

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Civil dissension is a viperous worm That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth.
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How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.
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Four days will quickly steep themselves in nights Four nights will quickly dream away the time And then the moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven, shall behold the night of our solemnities.
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Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
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Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep.
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Costly thy habit [dress] as thy purse can buy But not expressed in fancy - rich, not gaudy. For the apparel oft proclaims the man.
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I do love My country's good with a respect more tender, More holy and profound, then mine own life, My dear wife's estimate, her womb increase, And treasure of my loins.
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Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
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JAQUES: Rosalind is your love's name? ORLANDO: Yes, just. JAQUES: I do not like her name. ORLANDO: There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.
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Her virtues, graced with external gifts, Do breed love's settled passions in my heart And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So am I driven by breath of her renown Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive Where I may have fruition of her love.
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Et tu Brute! (You too, Brutus!)
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Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.
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The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves, Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.
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I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.
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By Heaven, I love thee better than myself
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The readiness is all.
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Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
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Bait the hook well. This fish will bite.
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Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep To sleep, perchance to dream—For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause, there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life
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Dirty days hath September April June and November From January up to May The rain it raineth every day All the rest have thirty-one Without a blessed gleam of sun And if any of them had two-and-thirty They'd be just as wet and twice as dirty. April hath put a spirit of youth in everything.
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