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For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood.
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
Liquors
Liquor
Rebellious
Apply
Hot
Youth
Blood
Never
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For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
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He's loved of the distracted multitude, who like not in their judgement, but their eyes.
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And in the morn and liquid dew of youth, Contagious blastments are are most imminent.
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Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.
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Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.
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If circumstances lead me, I will find Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed Within the centre.
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Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!
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Be great in act, as you have been in thought.
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Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, To make my end too sudden.
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What a terrible era in which idiots govern the blind.
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Why, i' faith, methinks she's too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little for a great praise: only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome and being no other but as she is, I do not like her. (Benedick, from Much Ado About Nothing)
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If ever (as that ever may be near) you meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, then shall you know the wounds invisible that love's keen, arrows make.
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Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge.
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Many that are not mad have, sure, more lack of reason.
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Love is a spirit all compact of fire.
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Nothing routs us but the villainy of our fears.
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O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh
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The attempt and not the deed confounds us.
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Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
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Oh, I am fortune's fool!
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