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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
Happy
Thorn
Lives
Virgin
Life
Virgins
Theseus
Rose
Distill
Flower
Midsummer
Single
Thrice
Grows
Withering
Dies
Blessedness
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Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood.
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In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales Of woeful ages, long ago betid
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Rest you fair, good signior Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
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Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
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My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.
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There is little choice in a barrel of rotten apples.
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Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet--nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.
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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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A thousand kisses buys my heart from me And pay them at thy leisure, one by one.
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A man I am cross'd with adversity.
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He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea singing aloud Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.
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Comfort's in heaven, and we are on the earth
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God mark thee to His grace! Thou was the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed. And might I live to see thee married once, I have my wish.
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What e'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time.
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The apparel oft proclaims the man.
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For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg.
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