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Fairies, black, grey, green, and white, You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, You orphan heirs of fixed destiny, Attend your office and your quality.
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
Green
Heirs
Destiny
Orphan
Office
Shades
Quality
Attend
White
Grey
Black
Shade
Night
Fairy
Moonshine
Fixed
Fairies
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Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter.
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I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.
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Love is your master, for he masters you And he that is so yoked by a fool Methinks should not be chronicled for wise.
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O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell
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Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
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And nature must obey necessity.
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Like the lily That once was mistress of the field and flourished, I'll hang my head and perish.
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The summer's flower is to the summer sweet Though to itself it only live and die
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Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.
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You speak like a green girl / unsifted in such perilous circumstances.
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How long a time lies in one little word?
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A college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?
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Ideas are the very coinage of your brain.
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My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel I know not where I am nor what I do.
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O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.
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Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
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It is a heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in it.
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Farewell, fair cruelty.
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Against ill chances men are ever merry, But heaviness foreruns the good event.
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Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.
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