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Like the lily That once was mistress of the field and flourished, I'll hang my head and perish.
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
Mistress
Hang
Field
Fields
Head
Flourished
Like
Lily
Lilies
Perish
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Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian.
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Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty.
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Divers philosophers hold that the lips is parcel of the mouth.
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Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.
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They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad
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Death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!
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Your wisdom is consum'd in confidence. Do not go forth to-day.
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Ever note, Lucilius, When love begins to sicken and decay It useth an enforced ceremony. There are no tricks in plain and simple faith But hollow men, like horses hot at hand, Make gallant show and promise of their mettle But when they should endure the bloody spur, They fall their crests, and like deceitful jades Sink in the trial.
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Cry havoc! and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
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Honour travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast.
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I will instruct my sorrows to be proud for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.
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Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.
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The sweets we wish for, turn to loathed sours, Even in the moment that we call them ours.
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Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.
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For I am proverbed with a grandsire phrase.
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The wheel is come full circle.
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Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.
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We will meet and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously.
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Kiss me, Kate, we shall be married o'Sunday
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This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it.
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