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So loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven, Visit her face' too roughly.
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
Heaven
Faces
Mother
Roughly
Might
Winds
Visit
Loving
Wind
Face
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O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, / That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
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Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls Conscience is but a work that cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong in awe: Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law!
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A substitute shines brightly as a king Until a king be by, and then his state Empties itself, as dot an inland brook Into the main of waters.
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The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony.
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All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.
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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 crave fit disposition for my wife Due reference of place, and exhibition With such accommodation, and besort, As levels with her breeding.
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Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you, undo this button.
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The art of our necessities is strange That can make vile things precious.
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Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.
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A scar nobly got is a good livery of honor.
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I must be cruel, only to be kind.
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What the great ones do, the less will prattle of
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My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel I know not where I am nor what I do.
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He's a soldier and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing.
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And by that destiny to perform an act Whereof what's past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge.
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Ignorance is the curse of God knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.
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Small to greater matters must give way.
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There should be hours for necessities, not for delights times to repair our nature with comforting repose, and not for us to waste these times.
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The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven and as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name such tricks hath strong imagination.
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