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. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.
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
Take
Season
Make
Weather
Fairs
Seasons
Needful
Fair
Fairness
Roots
Frame
Impossible
Harvest
True
Root
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When Caesar says, 'Do this', it is performed.
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So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.
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Weed your better judgments of all opinion that grows rank in them.
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But here's the joy: my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery!
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So we grew together like to a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet an union in partition, two lovely berries molded on one stem.
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For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.
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Love bears it out even to the edge of doom.
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We must not stint Our necessary actions in the fear To cope malicious censurers, which ever, As rav'nous fishes, do a vessel follow That is new-trimmed, but benefit no further Than vainly longing.
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I dreamt my lady came and found me dead . . . . . . . . . . . . And breathed such life with kisses in my lips That I revived and was an emperor.
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If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this day an unaccustomed spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
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Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?
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When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air the earth sings when he touches it the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.
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I stalk about her door, like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for waftage.
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My stars shine darkly over me
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The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.
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Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it Without a prompter.
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I doubt not then but innocence shall makeFalse accusation blush, and tyrannyTremble at patience.
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A light heart lives long.
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she shall scant show well that now shows best.
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As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free.
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