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For what is wedlock forced but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife? Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, And is a pattern of celestial peace.
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
Forced
Wedlock
Patterns
Discord
Contrary
Continual
Marriage
Celestial
Hell
Strife
Age
Pattern
Peace
Whereas
Bliss
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Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
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The fortune of us that are the moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the moon.
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Every man has his fault, and honesty is his.
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Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is convey'd Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen.
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Well, I will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man.
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Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend Nor services to do till you require.
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I think thy horse will sooner con an oration than thou learn a prayer without book.
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A woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not.
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Why, thou owest god a death.
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And thus I clothe my naked villainy With odd old ends stol'n out of holy writ And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
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But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
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O most delicate fiend! Who is't can read a woman? Is there more?
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Art made tongue-tied by authority.
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For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
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Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly.
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O, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
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O, while you live, tell truth, and shame the Devil!
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No, I will be the pattern of all patience I will say nothing.
William Shakespeare
To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
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There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achieved by others' death.
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