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Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
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
Dear
Jewel
Whose
Beauties
Art
Sad
Wells
Jewels
Well
Cruel
Tyrannous
Heart
Precious
Doting
Make
Sadness
Fairest
Thou
Proudly
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The voice of parents is the voice of gods, for to their children they are heaven's lieutenants.
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He that loves to be flattered is worthy o' the flatterer.
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Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor for 'tis the mind that makes the body rich
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Would the cook were o' my mind!
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And do so, love, yet when they have devised What strainèd touches rhetoric can lend, Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathized In true plain words by thy true-telling friend And their gross painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood in thee it is abused.
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I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl. The secret mischiefs that I set abroach I lay unto the grievous charge of others.
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Man, proud man, drest in a little brief authority, most ignorant of what he's most assur d, glassy essence, like an angry ape, plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, as make the angels weep.
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If you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.
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Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, Which like two spirits do suggest me still: The better angel is a man right fair, The worser spirit a woman coloured ill.
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A young man married is a man that's marred.
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The good I stand on is my truth and honesty.
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I heard a bustling rumor like a fray, And the wind blows it from the Capitol.
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All thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test here, afore heaven, I ratify this my rich gift.
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thy wit is a very bitter sweeting it is a most sharp sauce.
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Give thy thoughts no tongue.
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Like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks.
William Shakespeare
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile.
William Shakespeare
I love him for his sake And yet I know him a notorious liar, Think him a great way fool, solely a coward Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him That they take place when virtue's steely bones Looks bleak i' th' cold wind withal, full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
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Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
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This is the third time I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away go. They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death.
William Shakespeare
