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Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose. For whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed.

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
Air
Flower
Perfumed
Whose
Aloft
Sweet
Milk
Shall
Raise
White
Raises
Smell
Rose

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And writers say, as the most forward bud Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, Even so by love the young and tender wit Is turn'd to folly, blasting in the bud, Losing his verdure even in the prime, And all the fair effects of future hopes.
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The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream And greedily devour the treacherous bait.
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This rough magic I here abjure and when I have required some heavenly music, which even now I do, to work mine end upon their senses that this airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book.
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Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep?
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Go, bid the soldiers shoot.
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Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
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Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy.
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I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop.
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Britain is A world by itself, and we will nothing pay For wearing our own noses.
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My prophecy is but half his journey yet, For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, Yon towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds, Must kiss their own feet.
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Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek.
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How wayward is this foolish love that, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse and presently, all humble, kiss the rod.
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By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death will seize the doctor too.
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Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.
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Each present joy or sorrow seems the chief.
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O braggart vile and damned furious wight!
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Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
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Lawless are they that make their wills their law.
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