Quote

You'd be so lean, that blast of January Would blow you through and through. Now, my fair'st friend, I would I had some flowers o' the spring that might Become your time of day.

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
Blow
Spring
Flower
January
Friend
Blast
Become
Lean
Might
Flowers
Would
Fairs
Time
Fair

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These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume
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Wise men never sit and wail their loss, but cheerily seek how to redress their harms.
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Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God, My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.
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Flesh and blood, You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition, Expell'd remorse and nature, who, with Sebastian- Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong- Would here have kill'd your king, I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art.
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Condemn the fault and not the actor of it?
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Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.
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We cannot fight for love, as men may do we shou'd be woo'd, and were not made to woo
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JAQUES: Rosalind is your love's name? ORLANDO: Yes, just. JAQUES: I do not like her name. ORLANDO: There was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened.
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He that is robbed, not wanting what is stolen, him not know t, and he's not robbed at all.
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There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.
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O serpent heart hid with a flowering face! Did ever a dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant, feind angelical, dove feather raven, wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of devinest show, just opposite to what thou justly seemest - A dammed saint, an honourable villain!
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I will not trust you, I, Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray, My legs are longer though, to run away.
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By heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be mekancholy.
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Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all!
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