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Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet Grace must still look so.

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
Still
Angels
Look
Fell
Looks
Bright
Must
Angel
Things
Wear
Would
Grace
Brightest
Though
Brows
Stills
Foul

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Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.
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Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colours wave! And either victory, or else a grave.
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When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.
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When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes.
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In the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear!
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God mark thee to His grace! Thou was the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed. And might I live to see thee married once, I have my wish.
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I profess not talking: only this, Let each man do his best.
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O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, That has such people in't!
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A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd, Quoted, and sign'd, to do a deed of shame.
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You have her father's love, Demetrius Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him!
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It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as you will desire and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire upon his death's-bed-Got deliver to a joyful resurrections!
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Tis much when sceptres are in children's hands, But more when envy breeds unkind division: There comes the ruin, there begins confusion.
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O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven
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Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye.
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I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide. Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause But rather reason thus with reason fetter, Love sought is good, but given unsought better.
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Minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this!
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