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Here's flowers for you Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.
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
Flower
Mint
Goes
Weeping
Middle
Rises
Age
Hot
Given
Flowers
Savoury
Men
Bed
Mints
Think
Summer
Marigolds
Thinking
Sun
Lavender
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The icy precepts of respect.
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He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea singing aloud Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.
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So many hours must I take my rest So many hours must I contemplate.
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What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?
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Like a dull actor now, I have forgot my part, and I am out, Even to a full disgrace.
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The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.
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Fill all thy bones with aches.
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Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will!
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I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.
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Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.
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Time's the king of men he's both their parent, and he is their grave, and gives them what he will, not what they crave.
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Tears water our growth.
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I would not wish any companion in the world but you.
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It is thyself, mine own self's better part Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.
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Yet do I fear thy nature It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.
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Take physic, pomp Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them And show the heavens more just.
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Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
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Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
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I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)
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