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What freezings I have felt, what dark days seen, What old December's bareness everywhere!
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
Days
Seen
Dark
Bareness
Felt
Freezing
December
Absence
Winter
Everywhere
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Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?
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He wears the rose Of youth upon him.
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Why, thou deboshed fish thou...Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half a fish and half a monster?
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One half of me is yours, the other half is yours, Mine own, I would say but if mine, then yours, And so all yours.
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I came, saw, and overcame.
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Such as we are made of, such we be.
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I am a subject, And I challenge law. Attorneys are denied me, And therefore personally I lay my claim To my inheritance of free descent.
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If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I defied not
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Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.
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To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.
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Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canter dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all.
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Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.
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My love is thaw'd Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was
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Sir Andrew Ague-Cheek: I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether (He's an oddity in that he enjoys having fun)
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As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free.
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O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh
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Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.
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This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.
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A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!
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My rage is gone, And I am struck with sorrow. Take him up. Help, three o' th' chiefest soldiers I'll be one. Beat thou the drum, that it speaks mournfully, Trail your steel spikes. Though in this city he Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, Which to this hour bewail the injury, Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist.
William Shakespeare
