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If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this day an unaccustomed spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
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
Spirit
Ground
Throne
Hands
News
Lightly
Dream
Dreams
Flattering
Truth
Thoughts
Sits
May
Trust
Thrones
Presage
Hand
Cheerful
Unaccustomed
Sleep
Joyful
Bosom
Lord
Lifts
Bosoms
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And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
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I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.
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Talkers are no good doers.
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To be slow in words is a woman's only virtue.
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Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.
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I had rather eleven died nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.
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Never anger made good guard for itself.
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I feel it gone, yet know not when it left.
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Sweets to the sweet.
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We that are true lovers run into strange capers.
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The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down.
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The sands are number'd that make up my life Here must I stay, and here my life must end.
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A woman's thought runs before her actions.
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I am your wife if you will marry me. If not, I'll die your maid. To be your fellow You may deny me, but I'll be your servant Whether you will or no.
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How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank Here we will sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears soft stillness, and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony
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This thing of darkness I acknowlege mine. There is nothing more confining than the prison we don't know we are in.
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To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.
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It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
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O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
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Full fathom five thy father lies Of his bones are coral made Those are pearls that were his eyes Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Ding-dong. Hark! now I hear them — Ding-dong, bell.
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