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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
Lord
Lifts
Bosoms
Spirit
Ground
Throne
Hands
News
Lightly
Dream
Dreams
Flattering
Truth
Thoughts
Sits
May
Trust
Thrones
Presage
Hand
Cheerful
Unaccustomed
Sleep
Joyful
Bosom
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I love thee, and it is my love that speaks
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Look on beauty, And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight, Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it.
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Men that make Envy and crooked malice nourishment, Dare bite the best.
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To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil! Conscience, and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation: To this point I stand,-- That both the worlds I give to negligence, Let come what comes only I'll be reveng'd.
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No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. But I know none, and therefore am no beast.
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Nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal.
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Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber.
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Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful Mine ears, that heard her flattery nor my heart, That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her.
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Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile
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That island of England breeds very valiant creatures their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage.
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Show me a mistress that is passing fair, what doth her beauty serve but as a note where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?
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Methought I was enamour'd of an ass.
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Love, which teacheth me that thou and I am one
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O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!
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Some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltness of time.
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true apothecary thy drugs art quick
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Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow
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And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire, The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.
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The eagle suffers little birds to sing.
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