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I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream.
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
Animal
Vigilant
Steal
Cream
Stealing
Cat
Humanity
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For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.
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The empty vessel makes the loudest sound.
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Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation
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When you depart from me sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave.
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Love, which teacheth me that thou and I am one
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Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?
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But virtue never will be mov'd, Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven.
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That is my home of love: if I have ranged, Like him that travels I return again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged.
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To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes, Recanting goodness, sorry ere 'tis shown But where there is true friendship, there needs none.
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Oh, God! I have an ill-divining soul!
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Full of wise saws and modern instances.
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Spirits are not finely touched But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence But like a thrifty goddess she determines Herself the glory of a creditor,Both thanks and use.
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Thou hast her, France let her be thine, for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison.
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Before, I loved thee as a brother, John, But now, I do respect thee as my soul.
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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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I'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well
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Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But bad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
William Shakespeare
True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings.
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The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.
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O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!
William Shakespeare
