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As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
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
Worth
Lame
Takes
Spite
Child
Deeds
Father
Delight
Truth
Active
Take
Fortune
Children
Comfort
Decrepit
Made
Youth
Dearest
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Every man has his fault, and honesty is his.
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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.
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Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy.
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Sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
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'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be, receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed, Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing.
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For the poor wren (The most diminutive of birds) will fight, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl.
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He that has a house to put's head in has a good head-piece.
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My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind So flew'd, so sanded their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew.
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Look to her, Moor, if thou has eyes to see. She has deceived her father, and may thee.
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I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes when they are in great danger I recover them.
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Thanks to men Of noble minds, is honorable meed.
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How much more doth beauty beauteous seem by that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
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Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.
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Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.
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Time and the hour run through the roughest day.
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If by chance I talk a little wild, forgive me I had it from my father.
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A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.
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Fishes live in the sea, as men do a-land the great ones eat up the little ones.
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To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little more than a little is by much too much.
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Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.
William Shakespeare
