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The world is grown so bad, That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.
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
Dare
Make
World
Wrens
Perch
Eagles
Prey
Grown
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What light through yonder window breaks?
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Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is convey'd Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen.
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When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover.
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Pray, do not mock me. I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less And, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
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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 would that I were low laid in my grave. I am not worth this coil that's made for me.
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Be still prepared for death: and death or life shall thereby be the sweeter.
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Wishers were ever fools.
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Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.
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He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.
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By my soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man to alter me.
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But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.
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How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, Their bones with industry.
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If you be King, why should not I succeed?
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Then imitate the action of the tiger stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.
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To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder, In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick, cross lightning.
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No matter where of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth
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