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Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood.
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
Sassy
Poison
Thou
Blood
Away
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Come, Lady, die to live.
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The mind of guilt is full of scorpions.
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Kindness nobler ever than revenge.
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And yet,to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.
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The miserable have no other medicine But only hope.
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What a deformed thief this fashion is.
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The strawberry grows underneath the nettle And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best Neighbour'd by fruit of baser quality.
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O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do.
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The old folk, time's doting chronicles.
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My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.
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If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
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Say as you think and speak it from your souls.
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I know them, yea, And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple Scambling, out-facing, fashion-mong'ring boys, That lie, and cog, and flout, deprave, and slander, Go antickly, and show outward hideousness, And speak off half a dozen dangerous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst And this is all.
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I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano!
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When griping grief the heart doth wound, and doleful dumps the mind opresses, then music, with her silver sound, with speedy help doth lend redress.
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So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.
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Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?
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Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own
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There's not a shirt and a half in all my company, and the half shirt is two napkins tacked together and thrown over the shoulders like a herald's coat without sleeves.
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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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