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And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire, The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.
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
Keep
Maids
Enough
Affection
Shot
Shots
Unmasks
Moon
Prodigal
Danger
Prodigals
Beauty
Maid
Desire
Rear
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Nimble thought can jump both sea and land.
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Determine on some course more than a wild exposure to each chance.
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Age, I do abhor thee, youth, I do adore thee.
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I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
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Now is the winter of our discontent.
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Do not give dalliance too much rein the strongest oaths are straw to the fire in the blood.
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If fortune torments me, hope contents me.
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Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so Pardon is still the nurse of second woe.
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You know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard, And after scandal them.
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And all this day an unaccustomed spirit lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
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A heavier task could not have been impos'd, Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable.
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A plague on both your houses.
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Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But, either it was different in blood,- Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,- Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.
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Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine, Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state, Makes me with thy strength to communicate.
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That strain again! It had a dying fall: O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour! Enough no more: 'Tis not so sweet as it was before.
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Wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.
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Show me a mistress that is passing fair, what doth her beauty serve but as a note where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?
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In thy youth wast as true a lover, As ever sighed upon a midnight pillow
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Every great drama has its foreshadow.
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