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Take it in what sense thou wilt.
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
Wilt
Thou
Sense
Take
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I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.
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Things at the worst will cease or else climb upward To what they were before.
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O wretched state! o bosom black as death!
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I'll privily away I love the people, But do not like to stage me to their eyes Though it do well, I do not relish well Their loud applause and aves vehement, Nor do I think the man of safe discretion That does not affect it.
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I have not slept one wink.
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I can no other answer make, but, thanks, and thanks.
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I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.
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Mine honour is my life both grow in one Take honour from me, and my life is done.
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Jesu, Jesu, the mad days that I have spent! And to see how many of my old acquaintance are dead!
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Ay, but hearken, sir though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat.
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Pleasure and revenge Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice Of any true decision.
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Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.
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Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft.
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Hate pollutes the mind.
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An two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind.
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Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds.
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Thou art all the comfort, The Gods will diet me with.
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And simple truth miscalled simplicity
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Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All in the morn betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your valentine.
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Spirits are not finely touched But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence But like a thrifty goddess she determines Herself the glory of a creditor,Both thanks and use.
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