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Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud And after summer evermore succeeds Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold: So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.
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
Care
Seasons
Evermore
Sometimes
Clouds
Brightest
Winter
Succeeds
Thus
Barren
Summer
Joys
Nipping
Succeed
Cloud
Wrathful
Cold
Hath
Abound
Joy
Cares
Fleet
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Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.
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the fire seven times tried this seven times tried that judgement is that did never choose amiss some there be that shadows kiss such have but a shadows bliss, there be fool alive, i wis silverd o'er, and so was this Take what wife you will to bed I will ever be your head. So be gone you are sped.
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Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other side
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Through tattered clothes great vices do appear Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.
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It was always yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing, to make it too common.
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The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.
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I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.
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I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream.
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Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.
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Demand me nothing: what you know, you know.
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She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.
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You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame
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A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind.
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Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant can trickle when she wounds!
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Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending.
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I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.
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Twas a clever quibble. Here, a garment for it.
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