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All thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test here, afore heaven, I ratify this my rich gift.
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
Rich
Hast
Heaven
Stood
Love
Trials
Test
Afore
Tests
Ratify
Charity
Vexations
Thou
Vexation
Gift
Strangely
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Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!
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I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.
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Love all. Trust a few. Do wrong to none. This above all: to thine own self be true. No legacy is so rich as honesty. Brevity is the soul of wit
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thy wit is a very bitter sweeting it is a most sharp sauce.
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When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes.
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Here was a Caesar! When comes such another?
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For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
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Suspicion shall be all stuck full of eyes.
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He wears the rose Of youth upon him.
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Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.
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These are the forgeries of jealousy And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.
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Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie.
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I prithee gentle friend, Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passions, sway In this uncivil and unjust extent Against thy peace.
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Men shut their doors against a setting sun.
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The hind that would be mated by the lion Must die for love.
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And worse I may be yet: the worst is not So long as we can say 'This is the worst.
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To be furious, is to be frighted out of fear.
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Here comes Monseiur Le Beau. Rosalind: With his mouth full of news. Celia: Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young. Rosalind: Then shall we be news-crammed. Celia: All the better we shall be the more marketable.
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Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repair Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen Neither in inward worth nor outward fair Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
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Two women placed together makes cold weather.
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