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So holy and so perfect is my love, And I in such a poverty of grace, That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps.

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
Perfect
Harvest
Men
Main
Love
Ears
Plenteous
Think
Poverty
Glean
Thinking
Broken
Reaps
Holy
Crop
Grace
Crops
Shall
Reap

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Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But, either it was different in blood,- Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,- Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.
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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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Yet do I fear thy nature It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win.
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Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you, undo this button.
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He knows what it's like to strut and fret his hour upon the stage and then be heard no more.
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Poor wretches that depend On greatness' favor, dream as I have done Wake, and find nothing.
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But love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offense, Crying, 'That's good that's gone.
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There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps and not ever sad then for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamt of unhappiness, and waked herself with laughing.
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He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea singing aloud Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.
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I'll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath Who shuns not to break one will sure crack both.
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The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
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Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold.
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Talking isn't doing. It is a kind of good deed to say well and yet words are not deeds.
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