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A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.
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
Woman
Muddy
Women
Troubled
Like
Seeming
Fountain
Thick
Ill
Shrews
Moved
Taming
Beauty
Bereft
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Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green.
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These are the forgeries of jealousy And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.
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Come, Lady, die to live.
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This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh!
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A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.
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I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.
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I love thee, and it is my love that speaks
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Tis ever common That men are merriest when they are from home.
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And to be merry best becomes you for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour. BEATRICE No, sure, my lord, my mother cried but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.
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Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward, But then woos best when most his choice is froward.
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I am now of all humors that have showed themselves humors since the old days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o'clock at midnight.
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I'll make death love me for I will contend Even with his pestilent scythe.
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How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
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I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking.
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Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.
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As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page, gives intelligence of Ford's approach, and in her invention, and Ford's wife's distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket.
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The golden age is before us, not behind us.
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In God's name cheerly on, courageous friends, To reap the harvest of perpetual peace By this one bloody trial of sharp war.
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The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
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There is none of my uncle's marks upon you he taught me how to know a man in love in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.
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