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You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame
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
Heyday
Tame
Blood
Call
Age
Cannot
Love
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And blind oblivion swallowed cities up.
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If the masses can love without knowing why, they also hate without much foundation.
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What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel? *Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*
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Should the poor be flattered? No let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, and crook the pregnant hinges of the knee where thrift may follow fawning.
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A very little little let us do And all is done.
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Hot blood begets hot thoughts, And hot thoughts beget Hot deeds, And hot deeds is love.
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God defend the right.
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Besides, they are our outward consciences, And preachers to us all, admonishing That we should drew us fairly for our end.
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Kiss me, Kate, we shall be married o'Sunday
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Blood will have blood.
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After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.
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He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat.
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This man, lady, hath robb'd many beasts of their particular additions: he is as valiant as a lion, churlish as the bear, slow as the elephant-a man into whom nature hath so crowded humours that his valour is crush'd into folly, his folly sauced with discretion.
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My heart is ever at your service.
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All is well ended if this suit be won. That you express content which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day.
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How sometimes nature will betray its folly, Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime To harder bosoms!
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Prosperity's the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters.
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True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings.
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Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.
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'Tis thought the king is dead we will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all wither'd.
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