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I hope to see London once ere I die.

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
London
Travel
Dies
Hope

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They do not love that do not show their love. The course of true love never did run smooth. Love is a familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love.
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Ruin has taught me to ruminate, That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
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As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, / I must not look to have but, in their stead, / Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, / Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not (5.3.25-28).
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There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
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My heart is ever at your service.
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It is the cowish terror of his spirit that dares not undertake he'll not feel wrongs which tie him to an answer.
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For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
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I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back, Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, That the rude sea grew civil at her song And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, To hear the sea-maid's music.
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You speak an infinite deal of nothing.
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The sense of death is most in apprehension.
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An angel or, if not, An earthly paragon.
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Lord, what fools these mortals be!
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Take no repulse, whatever she doth say For 'get you gone,' she doth not mean 'away.' Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces
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But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph.
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Love for thy love , and hand for hand I give.
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O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having. . . .
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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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Tis not a year or two shows us a man: They are all but stomachs, and we all but food They eat us hungerly, and when they are full They belch us.
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The evil that men do lives after them the good is oft interred with their bones.
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Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck, And yet methinks I have astronomy. But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or season's quality Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell ... Or say with princes if it shall go well.
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