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And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, It is ten o'clock: Thus we may see, quoth he, how the world wags.
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
Looking
Wags
Eye
Touchstones
May
Wisely
Time
Clock
World
Ten
Lack
Thus
Quoth
Says
Lustre
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Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house as your pearl in your foul oyster.
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Who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down?
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Slanders, sir, for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging think amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams.
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If little faults proceeding on distemper Shall not be winked at, how shall we stretch our eye When capital crimes, chewed, swallowed, and digested, Appear before us?
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The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.
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How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
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When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.
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Ah me, how weak a thing The heart of woman is!
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And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?
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I scorn you, scurvy companion.
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Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is convey'd Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen.
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Love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams Driving back shadows over low'ring hills. Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.
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In time we hate that which we often fear.
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The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widowed wombs after their lords decease.
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Our holy lives must win a new world's crown.
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For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.
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Show me a mistress that is passing fair, what doth her beauty serve but as a note where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?
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What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven?
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