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But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph.
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
Tricks
Rudely
Glasses
Nymphs
Court
Amorous
Looking
Stamped
Made
Wanton
Love
Majesty
Sportive
Shaped
Nymph
Glass
Strut
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Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form
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Here will be an old abusing of God's patience and the king's English.
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Love adds a precious seeing to the eye.
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The leopard does not change his spots.
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I had rather eleven died nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.
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My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
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He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace and fear: And you all know, security Is mortals' chiefest enemy.
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What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish a very ancient and fishlike smell a kind of not of the newest poor-John. A strange fish!
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The very instant I saw you, did My heart fly to your service there resides To make me slave to it. ...mine unworthiness, that dare not offer What I desire to give, and much less take What I shall die to want.
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Come not within the measure of my wrath.
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Nay, we must think men are not gods, Nor of them look for such observancy As fits the bridal.
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Time does not have the same appeal for every one
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All thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test here, afore heaven, I ratify this my rich gift.
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It is a heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in it.
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Nothing can come of nothing.
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And in some perfumes there is more delight than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know that music hath a far more pleasing sound.
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Direct not him whose way himself will choose 'Tis breath not lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.
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Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.
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What is aught but as 'tis valued?
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Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.
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