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Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror
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
Dying
Stills
Still
Love
Injurious
Life
Respite
Horror
Comfort
Whose
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If yon bethink yourself of any crime Unreconcil'd as yet to heaven and grace, Solicit for it straight.
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You have too much respect upon the world They lose it that do buy it with much care
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Much rain wears the marble.
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Are there no stones in heaven But what serves for thunder?
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Who alone suffers suffers most i' th' mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.
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I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.
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I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking.
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These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.
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The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.
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Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.
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The sweets we wish for, turn to loathed sours, Even in the moment that we call them ours.
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Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' th' season Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, Which some call nature's bastards.
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But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts whereof I take this that you call love to bea sect or scion.... It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will.
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