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I have been studying how I may compare This prison where I live unto the world And, for because the world is populous, And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.
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
Cannot
Hammers
May
Studying
Live
Unto
World
Creature
Compare
Prison
Creatures
Populous
Study
Hammer
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At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth But like of each thing that in season grows.
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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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In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty.
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Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago, If thou but think'st him wronged, and mak'st his ear A stranger to thy thoughts.
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Et tu Brute! (You too, Brutus!)
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When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.
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Strong reasons make strong actions.
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Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?
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Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.
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A woman's fitness comes by fits.
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A contract of eternal bond of love, Confirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands, Arrested by the holy close of lips, Strength'ned by the interchangement of your rings, And all the ceremony of this compact Seal'd in my function, by my testimony.
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This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.
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The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.
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Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.
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Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace.
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The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our own virtues.
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This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.
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Who can control his fate?
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Thou whoreson zed! Thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a jakes with him. *all cheer for Shakespearean insults*
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