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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
Father
Delight
Truth
Active
Fortune
Take
Comfort
Decrepit
Children
Youth
Dearest
Made
Worth
Lame
Takes
Spite
Child
Deeds

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The loyalty, well held to fools, does make Our faith mere folly.
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Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep.
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The eye sees all, but the mind shows us what we want to see.
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O that men's ears should be To counsel deaf but not to flattery!
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Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed.
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Don't trust the person who has broken faith once.
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My falcon now is sharp and passing empty, and till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, for then she never looks upon her lure.
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The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our own virtues.
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If the boy have not a woman's gift To rain a shower of commanded tears, An onion will do well for such a shift.
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Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken. It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
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To be in love- where scorn is bought with groans, Coy looks with heart-sore sighs, one fading moment's mirth With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain If lost, why then a grievous labour won However, but a folly bought with wit, Or else a wit by folly vanquished.
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I cannot but remember such things were that were most precious to me.
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Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil
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Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye.
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But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly.
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Men have marble, women waxen, minds.
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Fondling,' she saith, 'since I have hemm'd thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale: Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
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