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That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)
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
Truth
Forgot
Silent
Almost
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Men at sometime are the masters of their fate.
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The pleasing punishment that women bear.
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He hath disgrac'd me and hind'red me half a million laugh'd at my losses, mock'd at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated my enemies. And what's his reason? I am a Jew.
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I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good Friends
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Tis a cruelty to load a fallen man.
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Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty.
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Right joyous are we to behold your face, Most worthy brother England fairly met!
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If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
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I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The Genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.
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Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain.
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A lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing.
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I long To hear the story of your life, which must Take the ear strangely.
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Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
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For to be wise and love exceeds man's might.
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Tis mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god.
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When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport, But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.
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My love is deep the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite.
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Rashly, And praised be rashness for it--let us know, Our indiscretion sometime serves us well When our deep plots do pall, and that should learn us There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will
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The last taste of sweets is sweetest last.
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