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For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.

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
Excitement
Begins
Joy
Hope
Lasting

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Stones have been known to move and trees to speak.
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Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?
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So quick bright things come to confusion.
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He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter.
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A knavish speech sleeps in a fool's ear.
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What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time?
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Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sell eternity to get a toy? For one grape who will the vine destroy?
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You may my Glories and my State depose, But not my Griefes still am I King of those.
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You speak like a green girl / unsifted in such perilous circumstances.
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Appetite, a universal wolf.
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The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down.
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Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
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O father Abram, what these Christians are, Whose own hard dealing teaches them suspect The thoughts of others!
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Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent.
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Her virtues, graced with external gifts, Do breed love's settled passions in my heart And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So am I driven by breath of her renown Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive Where I may have fruition of her love.
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QUINCE Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. FLUTE Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE Flute, you must take Thisby on you. FLUTE What is Thisby? a wandering knight? QUINCE It is the lady that Pyramus must love. FLUTE Nay, faith, let me not play a woman I have a beard coming.
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Even as one heat another heat expels, or as one nail by strength drives out another, so the remembrance of my former love is by a newer object quite forgotten.
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My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
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They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.
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There's husbandry in heaven Their candles are all out.
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