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Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
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
Often
Heat
True
France
Winter
Field
Summer
Lodge
Fields
Lodges
Cold
Inheritance
Open
Conquer
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O the world is but a word were it all yours to give it in a breath, how quickly were it gone!
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These cardinals trifle with me I abhor This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.
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The insolence of office.
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Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze by the sweet power of music.
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For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
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So loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven, Visit her face' too roughly.
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Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.
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Manhood is melted into courtesies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones, too.
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O, what a world of vile ill-favored faults, looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!
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Hang him, swaggering rascal!
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Oh, that way madness lies let me shun that.
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You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
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O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!
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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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Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.
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And where two raging fires meet together, they do consume the thing that feeds their fury.
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He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.
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