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Few things loves better Than to abhor himself.
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
Loves
Better
Things
Abhorrence
Abhor
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I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
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O shame, where is thy blush?
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Value dwells not in particular will It holds his estimate and dignity As well wherein 'tis precious of itself As in the prizer.
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How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?
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Sometimes when we are labeled, when we are branded our brand becomes our calling.
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If ever thou be'st bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage.
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I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.
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The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves, Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.
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O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
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I must be cruel only to be kind Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
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Small things make base men proud.
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Better conquest never canst thou make than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts against giddy, loose suggestions.
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Reason thus with life: If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep.
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How quickly nature falls into revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers Have broke their sleep with thoughts, their brains with care, Their bones with industry.
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If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
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You are thought here to the most senseless and fit man for the job.
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My love is as a fever, longing still.
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Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.
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Preposterous ass, that never read so far to know the cause why music was ordain'd! Was it not to refresh the mind of man, after his studies or his usual pain?
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I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed monster!
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