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Captain of our fairy band, Helena is here at hand, And the youth, mistook by me, Pleading for a lover's fee. Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be!
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
Hands
Fairy
Pleading
Lovers
Fees
Fool
Fond
Youth
Captain
Band
Captains
Shall
Fools
Helena
Hand
Lover
Mistook
Lord
Mortals
Pageant
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How now, wit! Whither wander you?
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I will not trust you, I, Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray, My legs are longer though, to run away.
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'Tis thought the king is dead we will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all wither'd.
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The instruments of darkness tell us truths.
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So many miseries have craz'd my voice, That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.
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Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares, And think perchance they'll sell if not, The lustre of the better yet to show Shall show the better.
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Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.
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Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long / To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
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As for my wife, I would you had her spirit in such another The third o' th' world is yours, which with a snaffle You may pace easy, but not such a wife.
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They that stand high have many blasts to shake them.
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Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament: They are but beggars that can count their worth But my true love is grown to such excess, I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth.
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Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!
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But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.
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Sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue.
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When law can do no right, Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong.
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Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your dispositions to be married It is an honor that I dream not of
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For now I stand as one upon a rock environed with a wilderness of sea, who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, expecting ever when some envious surge will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
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Though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe
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