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Comets importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky And with them scourge the bad revolting stars.

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
Times
Tresses
Change
Revolting
States
Comets
Scourge
Crystal
Crystals
Sky
Stars
Importing

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Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft.
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Every man has business and desire, Such as it is.
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Every cloud engenders not a storm.
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But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.
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I love thee none but thee, and thou deservest it
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I cannot but remember such things were that were most precious to me.
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Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' th' season Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, Which some call nature's bastards.
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Un-thread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again discarded faith.
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What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.
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I had rather live with cheese and garlic in a windmill.
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What, keep a week away? Seven days and nights, Eightscore-eight hours, and lovers' absent hours More tedious than the dial eightscore times! O weary reckoning!
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Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
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And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
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O, how full of briers is this working-day world!
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At once, good night- Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once.
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Kindness nobler ever than revenge.
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The earth, that is nature's mother, is her tomb.
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Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.
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Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court?
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When he is best, he is a little worse than a man and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast.
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