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Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle I am no traitor's uncle, and that word grace In an ungracious mouth is but profane.

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
Traitor
Uncle
Uncles
Mouth
Mouths
Grace
Word
Ungracious
Profane

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Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
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So far be distant and good night, sweet friend: thy love ne'er alter, till they sweet life end
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Love sees with the heart and not with mind.
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O, where is loyalty? If it be banished from the frosty head, Where shall it find a harbor in the earth?
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What soilders whey-face? The English for so please you. Take thy face hence.
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And the more pity that great folk should have count'nance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even-Christen.
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Small things make base men proud.
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The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.
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Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin's fee.
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Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day.
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The truest poetry is the most feigning.
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Verily, I swear, it is better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perked up in a glistering grief, and wear a golden sorrow.
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Heaven give you many, many merry days.
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Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror
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There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distill it out.
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With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine, than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
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I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.
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Who alone suffers suffers most i' th' mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.
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Now the melancholy of God protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changable taffata, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere, for that's it, that always makes a good voyage of nothing.
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Though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe
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