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O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. - Romeo -
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
Use
Burn
Jewel
Night
Bright
Hangs
Seems
Ears
Torches
Earth
Dear
Juliet
Like
Teach
Cheek
Rich
Jewels
Beauty
Doth
Upon
Cheeks
Romeo
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We will draw the curtain and show you the picture.
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We few. We happy few. We band of brothers, for he today That sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.
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Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
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For I can raise no money by vile means.
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That but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We'ld jump the life to come.
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I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking: I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment.
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Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.
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Charity itself fulfills the law. And who can sever love from charity?
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There is flattery in friendship.
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And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother
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Where the greater malady is fixed, The lesser is scarce felt.
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The art of our necessities is strange That can make vile things precious.
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Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
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Gold were as good as twenty orators.
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I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercise.
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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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If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.
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The eagle suffers little birds to sing.
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What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.
William Shakespeare
Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
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