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Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.
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
Leave
Graces
Grace
Copy
Alive
Copies
Night
Cruel
World
Grave
Lady
Graves
Lead
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I love thee none but thee, and thou deservest it
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Reason thus with life: If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep.
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Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace. Leave gormandizing.
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We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.
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Though I am not naturally honest, I am sometimes so by chance.
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Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.
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Men that hazard all Do it in hope of fair advantages: A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross.
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Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes.
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To be in anger is impiety, but who is man that is not angry?
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Be checked for silence, But never taxed for speech.
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My liege, and madam, to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time, Were nothing but to waste night, day and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.
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Prosperity's the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters.
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Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion
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Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.
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The deep of night is crept upon our talk, And Nature must obey necessity.
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I love thee, and it is my love that speaks
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Let every eye negotiate for itself and trust no agent.
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So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.
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These are the forgeries of jealousy And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.
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