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But I remember now I am in this earthly world, where to do harm Is often laudable, to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly.
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
World
Earthly
Folly
Stupidity
Harm
Dangerous
Often
Laudable
Remember
Accounted
Good
Sometime
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Say, thou art mine and ever, My love, as it begins, shall so persevere
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The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits.
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O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!
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. . from this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done.
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I was adored once too.
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I have shot mine arrow o'er the house And hurt my brother.
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Drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things . . . nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance.
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There is no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrown.
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Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
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These cardinals trifle with me I abhor This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.
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How every fool can play upon the word!
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Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so.
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A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
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... I am At war 'twixt will and will not.
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O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!
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[Thine] face is not worth sunburning.
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Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
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I had rather chop this hand off at a blow, And with the other fling it at thy face.
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Love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition: Win straying souls with modesty again, Cast none away.
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He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.
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