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Violent fires soon burn out themselves, small showers last long, but sudden storms are short he tires betimes that spurs too fast.
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
Small
Sudden
Betimes
Lasts
Storm
Tires
Last
Violent
Spurs
Long
Fast
Storms
Soon
Fires
Short
Tire
Violence
Showers
Fire
Burn
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Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither. Ripeness is all.
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I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born.
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I stalk about her door, like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for waftage.
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When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh! the doxy, over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
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Silence is the perfect herald of joy.
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A scar nobly got is a good livery of honor.
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Wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.
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So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him!
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Use every man according to his desert and who should 'scape whipping? Use them after your own honor and dignity, the less they deserve ... the more merit in your bounty.
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You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.
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Merrily, merrily shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
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I...Kisss the tender inward of thy hand.
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Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.
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Appetite, a universal wolf.
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Full fathom five thy father lies
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O serpent heart hid with a flowering face! Did ever a dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant, feind angelical, dove feather raven, wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of devinest show, just opposite to what thou justly seemest - A dammed saint, an honourable villain!
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Barnes are blessings.
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The sense of death is most in apprehension.
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The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.
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O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors.
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