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Good morrow, fair ones pray you, if you know, Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive trees?

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
Ones
Sheep
Tree
Forests
Good
Stands
Trees
Olive
Fairs
Olives
Pray
Morrow
Fair
Fairness
Praying
Forest

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When devils will the blackest sins put on They do suggest at first with heavenly shows
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A good leg will fall a straight back will stoop a black beard will turn white a curl'd pate will grow bald a fair face will wither a full eye will wax hollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon or, rather, the sun, and not the moon, — for it shines bright, and never changes, but keeps his course truly.
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So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
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A virtuous and a Christianlike conclusion-- To pray for them that have done scathe to us.
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What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!
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Away, you mouldy rogue, away!
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Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.
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She's good, being gone.
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There's nothing in this world can make me joy.
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O, where is loyalty? If it be banished from the frosty head, Where shall it find a harbor in the earth?
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I cannot do it without comp[u]ters.
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A little more than kin, and less than kind.
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Men that make Envy and crooked malice nourishment, Dare bite the best.
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Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.
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Ever note, Lucilius, When love begins to sicken and decay It useth an enforced ceremony. There are no tricks in plain and simple faith But hollow men, like horses hot at hand, Make gallant show and promise of their mettle But when they should endure the bloody spur, They fall their crests, and like deceitful jades Sink in the trial.
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for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)
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Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile.
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If circumstances lead me, I will find Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed Within the centre.
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I would with such perfection govern, sir, T'excel the golden age.
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I bear a charmed life.
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