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Ignorance is the curse of God knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.
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
Ignorance
Knowledge
Wherewith
Heaven
Wing
Aviation
Curse
Flight
Wings
God
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Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks
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For he was likely, had he been put on, to have proved most royally.
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No profit grows where no pleasure is taken.
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Thou speak'st like him's untutored to repeat: Who makes the fairest show means most deceit.
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We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars as if we were villians by compulsion.
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Ay, but to die and go we know not where To lie in cold obstrution and to rot This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.
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He was ever precise in promise-keeping.
William Shakespeare
Withal I did infer your lineaments, Being the right idea of your father, Both in your form and nobleness of mind Laid open all your victories in Scotland, Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace, Your bounty, virtue, fair humility Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose Untouch'd or slightly handled in discourse.
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I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.
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Remember thee! Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat In this distracted globe.
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By God, I cannot flatter, I do defy The tongues of soothers! but a braver place In my heart's love hath no man than yourself. Nay, task me to my word approve me, lord.
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For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
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Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
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And sleep, that sometime shuts up sorrow's eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company.
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I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say - I love you
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The cheek Is apter than the tongue to tell an errand.
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The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity's revolt to wantonness.
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The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night, Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light.
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This is his uncle's teaching, this Worcester, Malevolent to you In all aspects, Which makes him prune himself and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity.
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Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night.
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