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Retire me to my Milan, where Every third thought shall be my grave.
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
Every
Retiring
Grave
Graves
Third
Thirds
Shall
Milan
Age
Retire
Thought
Mortality
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Lawn as white as driven snow Cyprus black as e'er was crow Gloves as sweet as damask roses.
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Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure, And to that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour-a great patience.
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Like a dull actor now, I have forgot my part, and I am out, Even to a full disgrace.
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I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.
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Nature's tears are reason's merriment.
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Give to a gracious message An host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell Themselves when they be felt.
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My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.
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Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
William Shakespeare
When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport, But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.
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He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea singing aloud Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.
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Be advised Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself: we may outrun, By violent swiftness, that which we run at, And lose by over-running. Know you not, The fire that mounts the liquor til run o'er, In seeming to augment it wastes it?
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The icy precepts of respect.
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A good wit will make use of anything.
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You are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any.
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A friend should bear his friend's infirmities.
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Beauty within itself should not be wasted.
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What the great ones do, the less will prattle of
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My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun
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If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?
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Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law 'twill hardly come out.
William Shakespeare