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Come, Lady, die to live.
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
Lady
Dies
Live
Come
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O, had I but followed the arts!
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I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
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The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.
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O, where is loyalty? If it be banished from the frosty head, Where shall it find a harbor in the earth?
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O gentlemen, the time of life is short! To spend that shortness basely were too long, If life did ride upon a dial's point, Still ending at the arrival of an hour.
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Demetrius: Villain, what hast thou done? Aaron: That which thou canst not undo. Chiron: Thou hast undone our mother. Aaron: Villain, I have done thy mother.
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The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.
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O world, world! thus is the poor agent despised. O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavor be so loved, and the performance so loathed?
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O Lord that lends me life, Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness!
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Cold indeed, and labor lost: Then farewell heat, and welcome frost!
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It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing.
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My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except.
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Methought I was enamour'd of an ass.
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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?
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In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.
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These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.
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Oh God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea.
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We must be brief when traitors brave the field.
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What's brave, what's noble, let's do it after the Roman fashion.
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If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.
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