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Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding they brav'ry in their rotten smoke?
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
Make
Forth
Smoke
Didst
Clouds
Beauteous
Thou
Cloak
Travel
Cloaks
Promise
Rotten
Without
Hiding
Way
Base
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What Time hath scanted men in hair, he hath given them in wit.
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In limited professions there's boundless theft.
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I can no longer live by thinking.
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No sooner met but they looked no sooner looked but they loved no sooner loved but they sighed no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage.
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If there be devils, would I were a devil, To live and burn in everlasting fire, So I might have your company in hell, But to torment you with my bitter tongue!
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a wild dedication of yourselves To undiscovered waters, undreamed shores.
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All that glitters is not gold.
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I love thee none but thee, and thou deservest it
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Thanks, sir all the rest is mute.
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Nothing comes from doing nothing.
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Tis safter to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy.
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O no, thy love though much, is not so great, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.
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Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
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Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.
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Out of her favour, where I am in love.
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Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait, His day's hot task hath ended in the west: The owl, night's herald, shrieks-'tis very late The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest And coal-black clouds, that shadow heaven's light, Do summon us to part, and bid good night.
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Who alone suffers suffers most i' th' mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.
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There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.
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O mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
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Whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise.
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