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Words are grown so false, I am loath to prove reason with them.
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
False
Prove
Words
Reason
Loath
Grown
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Security is the chief enemy of mortals.
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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.
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The chameleon Love can feed on the air
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O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.
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Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time.
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I'll have no husband, if you be not he.
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Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.
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And why not death rather than living torment? To die is to be banish'd from myself And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her Is self from self: a deadly banishment!
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We may outrun By violent swiftness And lose by over-running.
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For honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
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Neither a borrower nor a lender be.
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His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.
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What e'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time.
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Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
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Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men?
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Beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time.
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There's nothing in this world can make me joy.
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This world to me is like a lasting storm,Whirring me from my friends.
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To beguile the time, look like the time.
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One whom the music of his own vain tongue doth ravish like enchanting harmony.
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