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O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, to drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears.
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
Sweet
Mermaid
Drown
Flood
Note
Sister
Notes
Train
Tears
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On a day - alack the day! - Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air
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Silence is only commendable In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible.
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My way of life Is fall'n into the sear and yellow leaf.
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Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds Do sorely ruffle for many miles about There's scarce a bush.
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Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts- O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!
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Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
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What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts.
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I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in.
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These violent delights have violent ends.
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Time, whose millioned accidents creep in betwixt vows, and change decrees of kings, tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharpest intents, divert strong minds to the course of altering things.
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Thou whoreson, senseless villain!
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Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?
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It is my soul that calls upon my name How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, like softest music to attending ears! -Romeo
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Is it not strange, that sheep's guts should hale souls out of men's bodies!
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woah is me to have seen what i seen see what i see
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Now I am past all comforts here, but prayer.
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Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
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To gild refined gold, to paint the lily... is wasteful and ridiculous excess
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Stones have been known to move and trees to speak.
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All difficulties are easy when they are known.
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