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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.
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
Nurse
Kiss
Testy
Foolish
Wayward
Kissing
Caprice
Humble
Presently
Love
Scratch
Like
Scratches
Babe
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Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up Thine own life's means!
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No stony bulwark can resist the love, and love dares what anyone can love.
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a wild dedication of yourselves To undiscovered waters, undreamed shores.
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This is the very ecstasy of love, whose violent property ordoes itself and leads the will to desperate undertakings.
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This is no time to lend money, especially upon bare friendship without security.
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Who alone suffers suffers most i' th' mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.
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This man, lady, hath robb'd many beasts of their particular additions: he is as valiant as a lion, churlish as the bear, slow as the elephant-a man into whom nature hath so crowded humours that his valour is crush'd into folly, his folly sauced with discretion.
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You'd be so lean, that blast of January Would blow you through and through. Now, my fair'st friend, I would I had some flowers o' the spring that might Become your time of day.
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Thou call'st me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.
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The course of true love never did run smooth.
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To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil! Conscience, and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation: To this point I stand,-- That both the worlds I give to negligence, Let come what comes only I'll be reveng'd.
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A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.
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O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
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What's gone, and what's past help, Should be past grief.
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O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet fondly loves!
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Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus.
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