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What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery?
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
Flattery
Thou
Sweet
Drink
Instead
Poisoned
Homage
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The seeming truth which cunning times put on to entrap the wisest.
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Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds.
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Maids want nothing but husbands, and when they have them, they want everything.
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What's past and what's to come is strew'd with husks And formless ruin of oblivion.
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Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion. I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
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My desolation does begin to make A better life.
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The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us.
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A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!
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It is silliness to live when to live is torment, and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.
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Get thee to a nunnery.
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Take you me for a sponge?
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The strawberry grows underneath the nettle And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best Neighbour'd by fruit of baser quality.
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O most delicate fiend! Who is't can read a woman? Is there more?
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I hold him but a fool that will endanger His body for a girl that loves him not.
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If I had my mouth, I would bite if I had my liberty, I would do my liking. In the meantime, let me be that I am, and seek not toalter me.
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You Jig, you amble, and you lisp.
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which.
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Forget, forgive conclude, and be agreed.
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Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
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