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I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
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
Venice
Merry
Sweet
Hear
Music
Never
Shylock
Merchants
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Affection, mistress of passion, sways it to the mood of what it likes or loathes.
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For he was likely, had he been put on, to have proved most royally.
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See first that the design is wise and just: that ascertained, pursue it resolutely do not for one repulse forego the purpose that you resolved to effect.
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Quote: What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?
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Haste is needful in a desperate case.
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For such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, ye're so slight.
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I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
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The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.
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for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)
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Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
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Get thee glass eyes, and like a scurvy politician, seem to see the things thou dost not.
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Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep.
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In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life.
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The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.
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what cannot be saved when fate takes, patience her injury a mockery makes
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which.
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Time travels in divers paces with divers persons.
William Shakespeare
Much rain wears the marble.
William Shakespeare
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears.
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The most peerless piece of earth, I think, that e' er the sun shone bright on.
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