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His worst fault is, he's given to prayer he is something peevish that way.
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
Way
Peevish
Fault
Faults
Atheism
Worst
Prayer
Given
Something
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I have full cause of weeping, but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws or ere I'll weep.
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Memory, the warder of the brain.
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But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.
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How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
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The strawberry grows underneath the nettle And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best Neighbour'd by fruit of baser quality.
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Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.
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I do not know What kind of my obedience I should tender. More than my all is nothing nor my prayers Are not words holy hallowed, nor my wishes More worth than empty vanities yet prayers and wishes Are all I can return.
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Wait for the season when to cast good counsels upon subsiding passion.
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Pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
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But say, my lord, it were not regist'red, Methinks the truth should live from age to age, As 'twere retailed to all posterity, Even to the general all-ending day.
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Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offense?
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You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense.
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I'll read enough When I do see the very book indeed Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.
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You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
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Virtue preserv'd from fell destruction's blast, Led on by heaven, and crown'd with joy at last.
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