Quote

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.

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
Birth
Trembling
Growing
Season
Call
Flowers
Year
Seasons
Death
Winter
Streaked
Nature
Ancient
Carnations
Years
Summer
Fairest
Flower
Bastards

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God bless thee and put meekness in thy breast, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty!
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Where every something, being blent together turns to a wild of nothing.
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Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.
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Old fashions please me best I am not so nice To change true rules for odd inventions.
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The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover, Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank, Conceives by idleness, and nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burrs, Losing both beauty and utility.
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For 'tis the sport to have the engineerHoist with his own petard.
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Flesh and blood, You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition, Expell'd remorse and nature, who, with Sebastian- Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong- Would here have kill'd your king, I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art.
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Cursed be he that moves my bones.
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And what’s he then that says I play the villain?
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O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. . . . She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomi Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep.
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Death lies on her like an untimely frost.
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How use doth breed a habit in a man.
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Zounds! sir, you are one of those that will not serve God if the devil bid you.
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To be in anger is impiety, but who is man that is not angry?
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Here's flowers for you Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.
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Live loath'd and long, Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites, Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears, You fools of fortune, trencher friends, time flies Cap and knee slaves, vapors, and minute jacks.
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Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile.
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Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form
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Love will not be spurred to what it loathes
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How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!
William Shakespeare