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Why, there's a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.
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
Kiss
Kissing
Come
Wench
Wenches
Taming
Kate
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How long a time lies in one little word?
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When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.
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I have not slept one wink.
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Get thee to a nunnery.
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Now, good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both!
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And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother
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I am ill at these numbers.
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Affliction is enamoured of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity.
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Preposterous ass, that never read so far to know the cause why music was ordain'd! Was it not to refresh the mind of man, after his studies or his usual pain?
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It is the very error of the moon She comes more nearer earth than she was wont, And makes men mad.
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Death-counterfeiting sleep.
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My heart laments that virtue cannot live Out of the teeth of emulation.
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By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
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I see a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist.
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Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun, and with him rise weeping.
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If love be blind, it best agrees with night
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Beware Of entrance to a quarrel but being in, Bear't that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy rich, not gaudy For the apparel oft proclaims the man.
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So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
William Shakespeare
Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.
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If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.
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