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Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And tune his merry note, Unto the sweet bird's throat Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

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
Enemy
Weather
Hither
Lying
Winter
Merry
Come
Notes
Tune
Loves
Unto
Bird
Tunes
Sweet
Note
Tree
Throat
Shall
Rough
Greenwood

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for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)
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Plutus himself, That knows the tinct and multiplying med'cine, Hath not in nature's mystery more science Than I have in this ring.
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When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married.
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As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.
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For I am proverbed with a grandsire phrase.
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Crabbed age and youth cannot live together: Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care.
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That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.
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Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.
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That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold What hath quenched them hath given me fire.
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For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.
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Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.
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What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.
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To be, or not to be, that is the question.
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Muster your wits stand in your own defence.
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As many arrows, loosed several ways, come to one mark...so many a thousand actions, once afoot, end in one purpose.
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Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish her election, Sh'ath sealed thee for herself.
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I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good.
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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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Do not plunge thyself too far in anger.
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Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait, His day's hot task hath ended in the west: The owl, night's herald, shrieks-'tis very late The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest And coal-black clouds, that shadow heaven's light, Do summon us to part, and bid good night.
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