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A blind man can't forget the eyesight he lost, show me any beautiful girl. How can her beauty not remind me of the one whose beauty surpasses hers?
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
Show
Girl
Surpasses
Lost
Eyesight
Shows
Remind
Beautiful
Blind
Men
Whose
Beauty
Forget
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Women's weapons, water-drops.
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A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain,... makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes.
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I heard a bustling rumor like a fray, And the wind blows it from the Capitol.
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What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.
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O Ceremony, show me but thy worth? What is thy soul of adoration? Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form, Creating awe and fear in other men?
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I'll privily away I love the people, But do not like to stage me to their eyes Though it do well, I do not relish well Their loud applause and aves vehement, Nor do I think the man of safe discretion That does not affect it.
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Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death.
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If all the year were playing holidays To sport would be as tedious as to work.
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Come my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers they hold up Adam's profession.
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The mind of guilt is full of scorpions.
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My meaning in saying he is a good man, is to have you understand me that he is sufficient.
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The will is infinite and the execution confin'd, the desire is boundless and the act a slave to limit.
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No matter where of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth
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That England, that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.
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Yet, do thy worst, old Time despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young.
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If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.
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What is thy sentence then but speechless death.
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Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me.
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Like a red morn that ever yet betokened, Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field, Sorrow to the shepherds, woe unto the birds, Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.
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While we lie tumbling in the hay.
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