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Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet--nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.

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
Legs
Shoes
Wear
Feet
Raiment
Asks
Stockings
Look
Sometime
Looks
Backs
Toes

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My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color.
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The mind of guilt is full of scorpions.
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Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.
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Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
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Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
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Truth is truth to the end of reckoning.
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So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant And breathe short-winded accents of new broils To be commenced in stronds afar remote.
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Some men never seem to grow old. Always active in thought, always ready to adopt new ideas, they are never chargeable with foggyism. Satisfied, yet ever dissatisfied, settled, yet ever unsettled, they always enjoy the best of what is, are the first to find the best of what will be.
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Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.
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What, can the devil speak true?
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Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repair Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen Neither in inward worth nor outward fair Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
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What Time hath scanted men in hair, he hath given them in wit.
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Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long / To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
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Ay, is it not a language I speak?
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One woman is fair, yet I am well another is wise, yet I am well another virtuous, yet I am well but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.
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An envious fever of pale and bloodless emulation.
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I know them, yea, And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple Scambling, out-facing, fashion-mong'ring boys, That lie, and cog, and flout, deprave, and slander, Go antickly, and show outward hideousness, And speak off half a dozen dangerous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst And this is all.
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Would I were dead, if God's good will were so, For what is in this world but grief and woe?
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To bed, to bed sleep kill those pretty eyes, And give as soft attachment to thy senses, As infants empty of all thought.
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Death is a fearful thing.
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