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O love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess!
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
Joy
Scant
Love
Moderate
Moderates
Ecstasy
Excess
Excitement
Measure
Rain
Allay
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Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But bad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
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Lord, what fools these mortals be!
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We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly followed.
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We are not ourselves When nature, being oppressed, commands the mind To suffer with the body.
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Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks
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Show me a mistress that is passing fair, what doth her beauty serve but as a note where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?
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If wishes would prevail with me, my purpose should not fail with me.
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My love admits no qualifying dross
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'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase you vile standing-tuck!
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Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business, Hath raised me from my bed nor doth the general care Take hold on me for my particular grief Is of so floodgate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself.
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Why, headstrong liberty is lashed with woe. There's nothing situate under heaven's eye But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky.
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Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth.
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Nature, as it grows again toward earth, is fashioned for the journey, dull and heavy.
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Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail, And say there is no sin but to be rich And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary
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Yet do I fear thy nature It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.
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The wounds invisible that Love's keen arrows make.
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