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The instances that second marriage move Are base respects of thrift, but none of love.
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
Move
Thrift
Moving
Instances
Love
Respects
Base
Instance
None
Marriage
Second
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Delivers in such apt and gracious words that aged ears play truant at his tales And younger hearings are quite ravished So sweet and voluble is his discourse.
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That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)
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To climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.
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Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand.
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Two may keep counsel putting one away!
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These earthly godfathers of Heaven's lights, that give a name to every fixed star, have no more profit of their shining nights than those that walk and know not what they are.
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Right joyous are we to behold your face, Most worthy brother England fairly met!
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Un-thread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again discarded faith.
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Behold the threaden sails, Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow'd sea, Breasting the lofty surge
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Melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.
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Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts- O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!
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The best is yet to come.
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Here comes a pair of very strange beasts, which in all tongues are called fools.
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So may I, blind fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving.
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God defend me from that Welsh fairy, Lest he transform me to a piece of cheese!
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I am giddy, expectation whirls me round. The imaginary relish is so sweet That it enchants my sense.
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Strikes deeper, grows with more pernicious root.
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Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.
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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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... And death unloads thee.
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