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But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
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
Rose
Distill
Flower
Midsummer
Single
Thrice
Grows
Withering
Dies
Blessedness
Happy
Thorn
Lives
Virgin
Life
Virgins
Theseus
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O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors.
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Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel.
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She is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.
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O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven
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I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools.
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They are hare-brain'd slaves.
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Give thy thoughts no tongue.
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If [God] send me no husband, for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening.
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My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world!
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Well-apparel'd April on the heel Of limping Winter treads.
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Modest wisdom plucks me from over-credulous haste.
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Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait, His day's hot task hath ended in the west: The owl, night's herald, shrieks-'tis very late The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest And coal-black clouds, that shadow heaven's light, Do summon us to part, and bid good night.
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I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that's in me should set hell on fire.
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