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Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight
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
Giving
Sorrow
Love
Sight
Short
Gives
Minutes
Joy
Cannot
Exchange
Come
Minute
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Death-counterfeiting sleep.
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I care not, a man can die but once we owe God and death.
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JAQUES: Rosalind is your love's name? ORLANDO: Yes, just. JAQUES: I do not like her name. ORLANDO: There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.
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Men from children nothing differ.
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I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in.
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To pore upon a book, to seek the light of truth.
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Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief
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My pride fell with my fortunes.
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I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad and to travel for it too!
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Those that much covet are with gain so fond, For what they have not, that which they possess They scatter and unloose it from their bond, And so, by hoping more, they have but less Or, gaining more, the profit of excess Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain, That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.
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Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night's dull ear and from the tents The armorers accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation.
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Here's flowers for you Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.
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O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors.
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Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me?
William Shakespeare
I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme. . .
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Tis not a year or two shows us a man: They are all but stomachs, and we all but food They eat us hungerly, and when they are full They belch us.
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Would I were in an alehouse in London.
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By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost It yearns me not if me my garments wear Such outward things dwell not in my desires: But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive.
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Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks, but I thank you and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny.
William Shakespeare
There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous men.
William Shakespeare
