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You take my house when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house you take my life When you do take the means whereby I live.

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
Sustain
Punishment
Means
Prop
House
Merchants
Live
Whereby
Take
Props
Mean
Venice
Life
Doth

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Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
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No might nor greatness in mortality Can censure 'scape back- wounding calumny The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue?
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Nay, we must think men are not gods, Nor of them look for such observancy As fits the bridal.
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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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Thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd, Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower, With ravishing division, to her lute.
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Henceforth, I'll bear Affliction till it do cry out itself, 'Enough, enough, and die.
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Though I am not naturally honest, I am sometimes so by chance.
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Brevity is the soul of wit.
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What is aught but as 'tis valued?
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Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.
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Thyself shall see the act For, as thou urgest justice, be assured Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st.
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Time and the hour run through the roughest day.
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The will of man is by his reason sway'd.
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I prithee gentle friend, Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passions, sway In this uncivil and unjust extent Against thy peace.
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Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
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I wish you all the joy that you can wish.
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Patch up thine old body for heaven.
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O, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
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I will make thee think thy swan a crow.
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Thou art a very ragged Wart.
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