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He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.
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
Writing
Smell
Capers
Dancing
Dances
Dance
Smells
Youth
April
Eyes
Verses
Eye
Writes
Speak
Holiday
May
Speaks
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Headstrong liberty is lashed with woe.
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Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep.
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Merrily, merrily shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
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Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.
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The wounds invisible that Love's keen arrows make.
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Gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.
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Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.
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Waste not thy time in windy argument but let the matter drop.
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And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse, As patches set upon a little breach, Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patch'd.
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Oh, God! I have an ill-divining soul!
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Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.
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Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze by the sweet power of music.
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which.
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Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
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If it be true that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true that a good play needs no epilogue.
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The play's the thing.
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Before, I loved thee as a brother, John, But now, I do respect thee as my soul.
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Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will!
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My charity is outrage, life my shame And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!
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Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.
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