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O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors.
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
Favors
Poor
Men
Lucifer
Princes
Hangs
Wretched
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Though Fortune's malice overthrow my state, My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel.
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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.
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To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little more than a little is by much too much.
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Base men being in love have then a nobility in their natures more than is native to them.
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For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood: I only speak right on I tell you that which you yourselves do know.
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Come give us a taste of your quality.
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Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears Moist it again, and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity.
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The plants look up to heaven, from whence they have their nourishment.
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All impediments in fancy's course Are motives of more fancy.
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Out of this nettle - danger - we pluck this flower - safety.
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What our contempts do often hurl from us, We wish it ours again.
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Withal I did infer your lineaments, Being the right idea of your father, Both in your form and nobleness of mind Laid open all your victories in Scotland, Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace, Your bounty, virtue, fair humility Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose Untouch'd or slightly handled in discourse.
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