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Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.

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
Dark
Creeping
Universe
Conjecture
Time
Chorus
Fills
Pouring
Entertain
Vessel
Poring
Wide
Murmur

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There's daggers in men's smiles.
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The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover, Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank, Conceives by idleness, and nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burrs, Losing both beauty and utility.
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But virtue never will be mov'd, Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven.
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For to define true madness, What is't but to be nothing else but mad?
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He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.
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But 'tis common proof, that lowliness is young ambition's ladder, whereto the climber-upward turns his face but when he once attains the upmost round, he then turns his back, looks in the clouds, scorning the vase defrees by which he did ascend.
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Those, that with haste will make a mighty fire, Begin it with weak straws.
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Mechanic slaves With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall Uplift us to the view.
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We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.
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Now the melancholy of God protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changable taffata, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere, for that's it, that always makes a good voyage of nothing.
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My free drift Halts not particularly, but moves itself In a wide sea of wax no levelled malice Infects one comma in the course I hold, But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.
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Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear
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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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I dote on his very absence.
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If little faults proceeding on distemper Shall not be winked at, how shall we stretch our eye When capital crimes, chewed, swallowed, and digested, Appear before us?
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And to the English court assemble now, From every region, apes of idleness!
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Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.
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Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.
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Ay me! sad hours seem long.
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For where is any author in the world Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye?
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