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One whom the music of his own vain tongue doth ravish like enchanting harmony.
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
Enchanting
Conceit
Doth
Vain
Tongue
Harmony
Music
Like
Ravish
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Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET Into my grave.
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If all the year were playing holidays To sport would be as tedious as to work.
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Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.
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Come, and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow.
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A Loud Laugh Bespeaks a Vacant Mind!
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Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, Which like two spirits do suggest me still: The better angel is a man right fair, The worser spirit a woman coloured ill.
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He hath not eat paper, as it were he hath not drunk ink his intellect is not replenished he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts. (Shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost, IV)
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This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,Was once thought honest.
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Why, all delights are vain but that most vain, Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain.
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England is safe, if true within itself.
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Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
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Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of Our human generation you shall find.
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Gently to hear, kindly to judge.
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This blessèd plot, this earth, this realm, this England This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, . . . This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land.
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I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book!
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Short summers lightly have a forward spring.
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My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except.
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What made me love thee? let that persuade thee, there's something extraordinary in thee
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And blind oblivion swallowed cities up.
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They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.
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