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Away, you mouldy rogue, away!
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
Away
Mouldy
Rogue
Sassy
Rogues
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Keep thy friend Under thy own life's key.
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Truth needs no color beauty, no pencil.
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Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service
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I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
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As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue
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Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O any thing, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
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Was ever woman in this humour wooed? Was ever woman in this humour won?
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So fair and foul a day i had not seen.
William Shakespeare
Love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams Driving back shadows over low'ring hills. Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.
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Weep I cannot But my heart bleeds.
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Who is Silvia What is she, That all our swains commend her Holy, fair, and wise is she.
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The weary sun hath made a golden set And by the bright tract of his fiery car Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow.
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Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And tune his merry note, Unto the sweet bird's throat Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.
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Why, all delights are vain, but that most vain Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain: As, painfully to pore upon a book, To seek the light of truth, which truth the while Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look.
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The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.
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So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men.
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More matter with less art.
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The gates of monarchs Are arched so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun.
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That affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.
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What fates impose, that men must needs abide it boots not to resist both wind and tide.
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