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Sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care.

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
Sleep
Care
Knits
Sleeve
Sleeves

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Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love's full sacrifice, He offers in another's enterprise But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see Than in the glass of Pandar's praise may be, Yet hold I off.
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And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
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Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me.
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Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
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Now the time is come, That France must veil her lofty-plumed crest, And let her head fall into England's lap.
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My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.
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I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
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A Devil, a born Devil on whose nature, nurture can never stick, on whom my pain, humanly taken, all lost, quite lost.
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Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both!
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No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. But I know none, and therefore am no beast.
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The sweat of industry would dry and die, But for the end it works to.
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And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
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If your mind dislike anything obey it
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Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.
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The private wound is deepest. O time most accurst, 'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!
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If by chance I talk a little wild, forgive me I had it from my father.
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The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.
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Love's mind of judgment rarely hath a taste: Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste.
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Cry havoc! and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
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A peace is of the nature of a conquest for then both parties nobly are subdued, and neither party loser.
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