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Oh God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea.
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
Make
Revolution
Continent
Level
Continents
Levels
Weary
Read
Solid
Times
Mountains
Science
Sea
Might
Mountain
Firmness
Book
Fate
Melt
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Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
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Light and lust are deadly enemies.
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How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping?
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When rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will
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There are no tricks in plain and simple faith.
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Sweetest nut hath sourest rind.
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. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.
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Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.
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Rashly, And praised be rashness for it--let us know, Our indiscretion sometime serves us well When our deep plots do pall, and that should learn us There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will
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They were devils incarnate.
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But jealous souls will not be answered so, They are not ever jealous for the cause, But jealous for they're jealous. 'Tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself.
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She will die if you love her not, And she will die ere she might make her love known
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Give thy thoughts no tongue, nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar but by no means vulgar.
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Doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born.
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Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.
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The wildest hath not such a heart as you. Run when you will, the story shall be changed: Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase The dove pursues the griffin the mild hind Makes speed to catch the tiger bootless speed, When cowardice pursues and valour flies.
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Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!
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For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.
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Let fancy still in my sense in Lethe steep If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
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