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Minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this!
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
Ends
Quiet
Years
Months
Would
Minutes
Hairs
Time
Hair
Unto
Life
Bring
Grave
Days
Graves
Hours
Pass
White
Created
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He does me double wrong That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue.
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What soilders whey-face? The English for so please you. Take thy face hence.
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I will be correspondent to command, And do my spiriting gently.
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The time of universal peace is near. Prove this a prosp'rous day, the three-nooked world Shall bear the olive freely.
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When griping grief the heart doth wound, and doleful dumps the mind opresses, then music, with her silver sound, with speedy help doth lend redress.
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I am a foe to tyrants, and my country's friend.
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My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world!
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How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted over In states unborn and accents yet unknown!
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Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
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I am your wife if you will marry me. If not, I'll die your maid. To be your fellow You may deny me, but I'll be your servant Whether you will or no.
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Marry, sir, they praise me and make an ass of me. Now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass so that by my foes, sir, I profit in the knowledge of myself, any by my friends I am abused so that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives, why then, the worse for my friends, and the better for my foes.
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Done to death by slanderous tongue
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Abandon all remorse On horror's head horrors accumulate.
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To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.
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That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)
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Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, but thankful even for hate that is meant love.
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I have almost forgotten the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool’d to hear a night-shriek and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in’t: I have supt full with horrors Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, cannot once start me.
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Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.
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What are you doing sister? / Killing swine.
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