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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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I would not lose so great an honor As one man more methinks would share with me For the best hope I have.
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The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good.
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For what is wedlock forced but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife? Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, And is a pattern of celestial peace.
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I swear again, I would not be a queen For all the world.
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'Tis pride that pulls the country down.
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O love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess!
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The due of honor in no point omit.
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We are not the first Who with best meaning have incurred the worst
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But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
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Sit by my side, and let the world slip: we shall ne'er be younger.
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The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.
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a young woman in love always looks like patience on a monument smiling at grief
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I drink to the general joy o’ the whole table. Macbeth
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Mind your speech a little lest you should mar your fortunes.
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This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs.
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which.
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Love is your master, for he masters you And he that is so yoked by a fool Methinks should not be chronicled for wise.
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Is she not passing fair?
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I had rather eleven died nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.
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It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on't.
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