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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
Flower
Festive
Grows
Mirth
Wish
December
Desire
Season
May
Snow
Thing
Christmas
Time
Seasons
Like
Rose
Xmas

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To unpathed waters, undreamed shores.
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O gentle son, Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper, sprinkle cool patience.
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I have thrust myself into this maze, Haply to wive and thrive as best I may.
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If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.
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If there is a good will, there is great way.
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Our jovial star reigned at his birth.
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A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us His dew falls everywhere.
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Friendship is constant in all other things Save in the office and affairs of love. Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues. Let every eye negotiate for itself, And trust no agent for beauty is a witch Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.
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As I hope For quiet days, fair issue, and long life, With such love as 'tis now, the murkiest den, The most opportune place, the strong'st suggestion Our worser genius can, shall never melt Mine honour into lust, to take away The edge of that day's celebration, When I shall think or Phoebus' steeds are founder'd Or Night kept chain'd below.
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Experience is by industry achieved, And perfected by the swift course of time.
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What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time?
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Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud.
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Life's uncertain voyage.
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What should we speak of When we are old as you? when we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December? how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse The freezing hours away?
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By Heaven, I love thee better than myself
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Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds Do sorely ruffle for many miles about There's scarce a bush.
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Inconstancy falls off ere it begins.
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A dream itself is but a shadow.
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Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, Nor age so eat up my invention, Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends, But they shall find awaked in such a kind Both strength of limb and policy of mind, Ability in means, and choice of friends, To quit me of them throughly.
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And do so, love, yet when they have devised What strainèd touches rhetoric can lend, Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathized In true plain words by thy true-telling friend And their gross painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood in thee it is abused.
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