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Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend Nor services to do till you require.
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
Desire
Precious
Heart
Till
Time
Slave
Love
Tend
Spend
Stepchildren
Hours
Sonnet
Upon
Services
Times
Require
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Downy sleep, death's counterfeit.
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Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
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As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, / I must not look to have but, in their stead, / Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, / Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not (5.3.25-28).
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Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm from an anointed King.
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He that is truly dedicated to war hath no self-love
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I can hardly forbear hurling things at him.
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I will not choose what many men desire, Because I will not jump with common spirits And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.
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How every fool can play upon the word!
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Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.
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The loyalty, well held to fools, does make Our faith mere folly.
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If you would persuade, you must appeal to interest rather than intellect. We are advertis'd by our loving friends.
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I am a man more sinned against than sinning
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The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree.
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And send him many years of sunshine days!
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Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?
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Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.
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And a man's life's no more than to say One.
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I have pursued her, as love hath pursued me
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Nothing comes from doing nothing.
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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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