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Till all grace be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.
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
Shall
Woman
Come
Till
Grace
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A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*
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. . . nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it he died As one that had been studied in his death To throw away the dearest thing he owed, As 'twere a careless trifle.
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Fishes live in the sea, as men do a-land the great ones eat up the little ones.
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Love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams Driving back shadows over low'ring hills. Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.
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A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us His dew falls everywhere.
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My stars shine darkly over me
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When our actions do not, our fears make us traitors.
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Lions make leopards tame.
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Thanks, sir all the rest is mute.
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Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail, And say there is no sin but to be rich And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary
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Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Here's three on's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself unaccommodated man is no more than such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art.
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Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
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I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.
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The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity's revolt to wantonness.
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The deep of night is crept upon our talk, And Nature must obey necessity.
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Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.
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To persevere In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness: 'tis unmanly grief.
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If fortune torments me, hope contents me.
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I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say - I love you
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