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O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven
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
Speak
Messenger
Night
Messengers
Art
Bright
Glorious
Thou
Angel
Head
Heaven
Winged
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To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans coy looks, with heart-sore sighs one fading moment's mirth
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A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
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My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.
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Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.
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For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings... All murdered for within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king, keeps Death his court... and with a little pin bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!
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The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, From earth to heaven.
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Take her away for she hath lived too long, To fill the world with vicious qualities.
William Shakespeare
I would there were no age between sixteen and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting
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Old fashions please me best I am not so nice To change true rules for odd inventions.
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In delay there lies no plenty.
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Simply the thing that I am shall make me live.
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Can we outrun the heavens?
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I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind.
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While thou livest keep a good tongue in thy head.
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Adversity makes strange bedfellows.
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Scorn, at first, makes after-love the more.
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I scorn you, scurvy companion.
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Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might. Whoever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight.
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Cheerily to sea the signs of war advance: No king of England, if not king of France
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For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg.
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