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Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry
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
Slip
Bees
Owls
Slips
Suck
Bells
Owl
Cows
Couch
Cry
Sucks
Lying
Couches
Bell
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Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that's gone.
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Though now this grained face of mine be hid In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow, And all the conduits of my blood froze up, Yet hath my night of life some memory, My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, My dull deaf ears a little use to hear.
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I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop.
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In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.
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We must follow, not force Providence.
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Then imitate the action of the tiger stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.
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O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!
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O war! thou son of Hell!
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thus with a kiss I die
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My way of life Is fall'n into the sear and yellow leaf.
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Thou art a soul in bliss but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.
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Love runs away from those chasing her, and those who run away, she throws herself on his neck.
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What is thy sentence then but speechless death.
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At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth But like of each thing that in season grows.
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Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come make her laugh at that.
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