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O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
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
Summer
Stout
Rocks
Siege
Health
Steel
Hold
Decay
Shall
Gates
Days
Honey
Impregnable
Strong
Breath
Decays
Time
Breaths
Battering
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The commonwealth of Athens is become a forest of beasts.
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There is a river in Macedon, and there is moreover a river in Monmouth. It is called Wye at Monmouth, but it is out of my prains what is the name of the other river but 'tis all one, 'tis alike as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in both.
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A knot you are of damned bloodsuckers.
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Then with the losers let it sympathize, For nothing can seem foul to those that win.
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Juliet is the east and i am the sun.
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My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.
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They are but beggars that can count their worth.
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Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.
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Blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled, That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please.
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Princes have but their titles for their glories, An outward honor for an inward toil And, for unfelt imaginations, They often feel a world of restless cares.
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The will is deaf and hears no heedful friends.
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The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, From earth to heaven.
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Pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
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Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.
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Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night.
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I will be master of what is mine own: She is my goods, my chattels she is my house, My household stuff, my field, my barn, My horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing.
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I'll note you in my book of memory.
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Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling.
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Britain is A world by itself, and we will nothing pay For wearing our own noses.
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I love thee, I love thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.
William Shakespeare
