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If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
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
Stand
Kiss
Shrines
Hand
Gentle
Blushing
Hands
Kissing
Profane
Two
Lips
Juliet
Touch
Pilgrim
Holy
Tender
Fine
Smooth
Shrine
Ready
Rough
Pilgrims
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If there is a good will, there is great way.
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Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
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Now, good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both!
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When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.
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So holy and so perfect is my love, And I in such a poverty of grace, That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps.
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Love is your master, for he masters you And he that is so yoked by a fool Methinks should not be chronicled for wise.
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Friendship's full of dregs.
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Loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
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Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.
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Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.
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This we prescribe, though no physician Deep malice makes too deep incision Forget, forgive conclude and be agreed Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.
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You are not wood, you are not stones, but men.
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Man and wife, being two, are one in love.
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Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound And through this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
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The readiness is all.
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A light heart lives long.
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Thou hast her, France let her be thine, for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison.
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I am sure, Though you can guess what temperance should be, You know not what it is.
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Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin's fee.
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