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Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear a robust periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings.
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
Acting
Splits
Actors
Tear
Soul
Fellow
Groundlings
Fellows
Tatters
Ears
Offends
Tears
Rags
Hear
Robust
Passion
Split
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A grandma's name is little less in love than is the doting title of a mother.
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That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.
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Such thanks as fits a king's remembrance.
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I have touched the highest point of all my greatness.
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Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
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Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long / To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
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And do as adversaries do in law, strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.
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To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on.
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Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.
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Full fathom five thy father lies
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Poor wretches that depend On greatness' favor, dream as I have done Wake, and find nothing.
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We suffer a lot the few things we lack and we enjoy too little the many things we have.
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ROMEO There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison thou hast sold me none. Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave for there must I use thee.
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Weariness can snore upon the flint when resting sloth finds the down pillow hard.
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What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts.
William Shakespeare
But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
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For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
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When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.
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O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, to drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears.
William Shakespeare
