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I understand a fury in your words But not your words.
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
Fury
Anger
Words
Understand
Desdemona
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Twas never merry world Since lowly feigning was called compliment.
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Good things should be praised.
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This night I hold an old accustomed feast, Whereto I have invited many a guest, Such as I love and you among the store, One more, most welcome, makes my number more.
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As you are old and reverend, you should be wise.
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The better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life.
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No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell.
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Barnes are blessings.
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What is done cannot be now amended.
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Be just, and fear not.
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Some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltness of time.
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Free from gross passion or of mirth of anger constant spirit, not swerving with the blood, garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment, not working with the eye without the ear, and but in purged judgement trusting neither? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.
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By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death will seize the doctor too.
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Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.
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I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me: but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume.
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Know my name is lost, By treason's tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit Yet am I noble as the adversary I come to cope.
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Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.
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From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing.
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Love is a spirit all compact of fire.
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This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
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His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.
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