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From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing.
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
Spirit
Trim
Thing
April
Every
Absent
Dressed
Hath
Spring
Youth
Proud
Pied
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Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands. Curtsied when you have and kissed The wild waves whist, Foot is featly here and there And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. Ariel's song, scene II, Act I
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The trust I have is in mine innocence, and therefore am I bold and resolute.
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All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, with sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.
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Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
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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 lack the season of all natures, sleep.
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I'll look to like if looking, liking move.
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Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh And sees fast-by a butcher with an axe, But will suspect 'twas he that made the slaughter?
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We make trifles of terrors, Ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge, When we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear.
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It will have blood, they say blood will have blood.
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And nature must obey necessity.
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So holy and so perfect is my love, And I in such a poverty of grace, That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps.
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The heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre Observe degree, priority, and place, Insisture, course, proportion, season, form, Office, and custom, in all line of order.
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O, Thou hast damnable iteration and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.
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Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.
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He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
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Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.
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Stars, hide your fires Let not light see my black and deep desires.
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We will meet and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously.
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