William Shakespeare
Greatest English dramatist & poet (1564 - 1616)
To thine own self be true -; And it must follow as the night the day; Thou canst not be false to any man
To thine own self be true -; And it must follow as the night the day; Thou canst not be false to any man
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie.
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies.
Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.
Love all, trust a few. Do wrong to none.
Life is but a walking Shadow, a poor Player That struts and frets his Hour upon the Stage, And then is heard no more; It is a tall Tale, Told by an Idiot, full of Sound and Fury, Signifying nothing."
I would fain die a dry death.
Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.
What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?
I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To closeness and the bettering of my mind.
Like one
Who having into truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie.
My library
Was dukedom large enough.
From the still-vexed Bermoothes.
I will be correspondent to command, And do my spiriting gently.
Fill all thy bones with aches.
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
The fringed curtains of thine eye advance.
A very ancient and fish-like smell.
Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.