Quote

Fair ladies, masked, are roses in their bud Dismasked, the damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.

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
Sweet
Ladies
Women
Shown
Angels
Fairs
Clouds
Masked
Fair
Bud
Rose
Blown
Angel
Roses

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Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits? Malvolio: Fool, there was never a man so notoriously abused. I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art. Feste: But as well? Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in you wits than a fool.
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Here is a rural fellow that will not be denied your Highness' presence: he brings you figs.
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There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently
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At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth But like of each thing that in season grows.
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This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
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I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.
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Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.
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Up and down, up and down I will lead them up and down I am feared in field in town Goblin, lead them up and down
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Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself.
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Trust not my reading, nor my observations, Which with experimental seal do warrant The tenor of my book.
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So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
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Thou hast her, France let her be thine, for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison.
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In struggling with misfortunes lies the true proof of virtue.
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Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head?
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The loyalty, well held to fools, does make Our faith mere folly.
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Then to Silvia let us sing that Silvia is excelling. She excels each mortal thing upon the dull earth dwelling.
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But miserable most, to love unloved? This you should pity rather than despise
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Greatest scandal waits on greatest state.
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Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good, but graciously to know I am no better.
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A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry But were we burdened with light weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.
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