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O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with Time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face. But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?
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
Last
Strange
Faces
Changed
Deformed
Voice
Hand
Dost
Tell
Since
Hath
Hands
Written
Thou
Time
Face
Careful
Hours
Grief
Lasts
Saws
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Tis a cruelty to load a fallen man.
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All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, with sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.
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Great griefs medicine the less.
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Our rash faults Make trivial price of serious thing we have, Not knowing them until we know their grave.
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I say there is no darkness but ignorance.
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Foul whisp'rings are abroad.
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The Foole doth thinke he is wise, but the wiseman knowes himselfe to be a Foole.
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Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.
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The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance.
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O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! And yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hooping.
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Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.
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Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
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Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.
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Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?
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It is meant that noble minds keep ever with their likes for who so firm that cannot be seduced.
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Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
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Forever, and forever, farewell, Cassius! If we do meet again, why, we shall smile If not, why then this parting was well made.
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She's good, being gone.
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Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief.
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Where every something, being blent together turns to a wild of nothing.
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