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O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell
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
Love
Dwell
Unto
Hath
Grace
Turn
Hell
Heaven
Turns
Graces
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Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.
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Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engend'red in the eyes, With gazing fed, and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies.
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Within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court.
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Ay, is it not a language I speak?
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Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor.
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O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, to drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears.
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We cannot fight for love, as men may do we shou'd be woo'd, and were not made to woo
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But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.
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My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.
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He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.
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You are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any.
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Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and a rich.
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My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.
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That, sir, which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack, when it begins to rain, And leave thee in a storm.
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The weariest and most loathed worldly life, that age, ache, penury and imprisonment can lay on nature is a paradise, to what we fear of death.
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