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At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth But like of each thing that in season grows.
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
Desire
Season
May
Snow
Thing
Christmas
Time
Seasons
Like
Rose
Xmas
Flower
Festive
Grows
Mirth
Wish
December
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true apothecary thy drugs art quick
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My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.
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If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion.
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Never he will not: Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety: other women cloy The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies.
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Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat Of habits devil, is angel yet in this.
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Some are born great, others achieve greatness.
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Dreams, indeed, are ambition for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. And I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow's shadow.
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If I for my opinion bleed, opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt, and keep me on the side where still I am.
William Shakespeare
For there's no motion That tends to vice in man, but I affirm It is the woman's part.
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Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.
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Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!
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Our enemies are our outward consciences.
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Take pains. Be perfect.
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Thoughts are but dreams till their effects are tried.
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You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
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Full fathom five thy father lies Of his bones are coral made Those are pearls that were his eyes Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Ding-dong. Hark! now I hear them — Ding-dong, bell.
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O braggart vile and damned furious wight!
William Shakespeare
Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.
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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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Was ever woman in this humour wooed? Was ever woman in this humour won?
William Shakespeare
