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Fight valiantly to-day and yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, for thou art framed of the firm truth of valor.

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
Truth
Bravery
Mind
Firm
Thou
Thee
Fight
Fighting
Valiantly
Wrong
Valor
Art
Framed

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We were not born to sue, but to command.
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To fear the worst oft cures the worst.
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Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
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And where the offense is, let the great axe fall.
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I'll have no husband, if you be not he.
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You know who you are, but know not who you could be.
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We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh few are angels.
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Take but degree away, untune that string, and hark, what discord follows!
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The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause.
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For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.
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Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel? Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough.
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Done to death by slanderous tongue
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There's rosemary and rue. These keep Seeming and savor all the winter long. Grace and remembrance be to you.
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Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!
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And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not.
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In thy foul throat thou liest.
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I do love My country's good with a respect more tender, More holy and profound, then mine own life, My dear wife's estimate, her womb increase, And treasure of my loins.
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Never he will not: Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety: other women cloy The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies.
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Keep time! How sour sweet music is when time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives. I wasted time and now doth time waste me.
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