Quote

But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

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
Cruel
Eyes
Feed
Contracted
Lying
Flames
Thine
Eye
Abundance
Substantial
Making
Fuel
Foe
Light
Bright
Famine
Self
Thou
Thyself
Lies
Flame

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And my poor fool is hanged! No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more, Never, Never, Never, Never, Never! Pray you, undo this button.
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Here comes Monseiur Le Beau. Rosalind: With his mouth full of news. Celia: Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young. Rosalind: Then shall we be news-crammed. Celia: All the better we shall be the more marketable.
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Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet--nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.
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There's beggary in love that can be reckoned
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My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night-- Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about The other four in wondrous motion.
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Go, bid the soldiers shoot.
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There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee.
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For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
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An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye Give him a little earth for charity!
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Like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks.
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Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.
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He's truly valiant that can wisely suffer The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs His outsides, to wear them like his raiment, carelessly, And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart, To bring it into danger.
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Besides, our nearness to the King in love Is near the hate of those love not the King.
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Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
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By Heaven, my soul is purg'd from grudging hate And with my hand I seal my true heart's love
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Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
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Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain.
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When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.
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For I can raise no money by vile means.
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The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows. They are polluted off'rings, more abhorred! Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.
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