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A merry heart goes all the way, - A sad one tires inan hour.
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
Hour
Goes
Hours
Heart
Way
Tires
Merry
Tire
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I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
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Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue.
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Come, go with us, speak fair you may salve so, Not what is dangerous present, but the los Of what is past.
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I'll read enough When I do see the very book indeed Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.
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Stones have been known to move and trees to speak.
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There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps and not ever sad then for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamt of unhappiness, and waked herself with laughing.
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All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
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I never yet did hear, That the bruis'd heart was pierced through the ear
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Full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
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I dote on his very absence.
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Talkers are no good doers.
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Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts To courtship and such fair ostents of love As shall conveniently become you there.
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I'll go find a shadow, and sigh till he come (Phebe)
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Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
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I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.
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There is none of my uncle's marks upon you he taught me how to know a man in love in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.
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When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men for thus sings he, Cuckoo Cuckoo, cuckoo O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.
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Downy sleep, death's counterfeit.
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O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors.
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Use almost can change the stamp of nature.
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