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My father names me Autolycus, who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.

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
Trifles
Names
Father
Unconsidered
Littered
Mercury
Likewise

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Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound And through this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
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Shall I compare thee to a summer day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate... When in eternal lines to time thou growst So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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A college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?
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Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd, Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked, or charitable, Thou com'st in such a questionable shape, That I will speak to thee.
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Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
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I cannot, nor I will not hold me still My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.
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Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses.
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The very instant I saw you, did My heart fly to your service there resides To make me slave to it. ...mine unworthiness, that dare not offer What I desire to give, and much less take What I shall die to want.
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Still constant is a wondrous excellence.
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Dost thou love hawking? Thou hast hawks will soar Above the morning lark.
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How many cowards whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars, Who inward searched, have livers white as milk!
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My cake is dough, but I'll in among the rest, Out of hope of all but my share of the feast.
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Your praises will become your wages.
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My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.
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Why, there's a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.
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The bitter clamor of two eager tongues.
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I feel within me a peace above all earthly dignities, a still and quiet conscience.
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Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep.
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