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O, Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villainy, not born where't grows, But worn a bait for ladies.
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
Thought
Revolt
Women
Seeming
Traitors
Good
Ladies
Villainy
Men
Worn
Vows
Husband
Matrimony
Shall
Bait
Grows
Vow
Born
Traitor
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Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?
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In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.
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The heavenly-harness'd team Begins his golden progress in the east.
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Heaven is above all yet there sits a judge, That no king can corrupt.
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Sin will pluck on sin.
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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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Confess yourself to heaven, Repent what's past, avoid what is to come, And do not spread the compost on the weeds To make them ranker.
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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.
William Shakespeare
As chaste as unsunned snow.
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My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color.
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She will die if you love her not, And she will die ere she might make her love known
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'Tis not to make me jealous To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company, Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well Where virtue is, these are more virtuous.
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Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose. For whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed.
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And makes me poor indeed.
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Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
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How hard it is for women to keep counsel!
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And how his audit stands who knows, save Heaven?
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A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.
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O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
William Shakespeare
There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.
William Shakespeare