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Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
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
Art
Embossed
Boil
Sore
Corrupted
Plague
Insult
Thou
Blood
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Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile
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By heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be mekancholy.
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Yet do I fear thy nature It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win.
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If all the year were playing holidays To sport would be as tedious as to work.
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Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear
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Then others for breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.
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O father Abram, what these Christians are, Whose own hard dealing teaches them suspect The thoughts of others!
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You abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone.
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The love of heaven makes one heavenly.
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Why, all delights are vain but that most vain, Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain.
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Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.
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All furnished, all in arms All plum'd like estridges that with the wind Bated like eagles having lately bathed Glittering in golden coats like images As full of spirit as the month of May And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
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Promising is the very air o' the time it opens the eyes of expectation.
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Why, headstrong liberty is lashed with woe. There's nothing situate under heaven's eye But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky.
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That which is now a horse, even with a thought The rack dislimms, and makes it indistinct As water is in water
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For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.
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Art made tongue-tied by authority.
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I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.
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By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost It yearns me not if me my garments wear Such outward things dwell not in my desires: But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive.
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There is a kind of character in thy life, That to the observer doth thy history, fully unfold.
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