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I am a kind of burr I shall stick.
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
Kind
Burr
Burrs
Perseverance
Stick
Sticks
Shall
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See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
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My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
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Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.
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Holy, fair, and wise is she The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be.
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If she be not honest, chaste, and true, there's no man happy.
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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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One woman is fair, yet I am well another is wise, yet I am well another virtuous, yet I am well but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.
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O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.
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I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good Friends
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Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lies in sweetest bud. All men make faults.
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For my part, I may speak it to my shame, I have a truant been to chivalry And so I hear he doth account me too.
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I will be master of what is mine own: She is my goods, my chattels she is my house, My household stuff, my field, my barn, My horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing.
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With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage.
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Hold, or cut bowstrings.
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The Eyes are the window to your soul
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That, sir, which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack, when it begins to rain, And leave thee in a storm.
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That which I would discover The law of friendship bids me to conceal.
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I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so, because I think him so.
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Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!
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Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things. [Act 5, Scene 2]
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