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Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated
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
Despised
Sooner
Hated
Straight
Enjoy
Past
Reason
Hunted
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What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
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For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.
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It will have blood, they say blood will have blood.
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Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?
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An envious fever of pale and bloodless emulation.
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Just death, kind umpire of men's miseries.
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When the age is in, the wit is out
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Be advised Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself: we may outrun, By violent swiftness, that which we run at, And lose by over-running. Know you not, The fire that mounts the liquor til run o'er, In seeming to augment it wastes it?
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I take thee at thy word: Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
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My falcon now is sharp and passing empty, and till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, for then she never looks upon her lure.
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What can be avoided Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods?
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A flock of blessings light upon thy back
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Fairies, black, grey, green, and white, You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, You orphan heirs of fixed destiny, Attend your office and your quality.
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Good company, good wine, good welcome, can make good people.
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This day's black fate on more days doth depend This but begins the woe, others must end.
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Here's flowers for you Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.
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Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .
William Shakespeare
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
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I have a bone to pick with Fate
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Report me and my cause aright.
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