Quote

The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape, In forms imaginary, th' unguided days And rotten times that you shall look upon When I am sleeping with my ancestors.

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
Imagination
Sleeping
Sleep
Imaginary
Upon
Shape
Unguided
Times
Forms
Weeps
Form
Shapes
Prophecy
Look
Blood
Ancestors
Looks
Shall
Rotten
Heart
Days
Ancestor

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We suffer a lot the few things we lack and we enjoy too little the many things we have.
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Bow, stubborn knees, and, heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe. All many be well.
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Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colours wave! And either victory, or else a grave.
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Here is a rural fellow that will not be denied your Highness' presence: he brings you figs.
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Words are easy, like the wind Faithful friends are hard to find.
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Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good, but graciously to know I am no better.
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How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted over In states unborn and accents yet unknown!
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Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.
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The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand.
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Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep To sleep, perchance to dream—For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause, there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life
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What fates impose, that men must needs abide it boots not to resist both wind and tide.
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I have been studying how I may compare This prison where I live unto the world And, for because the world is populous, And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.
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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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Ingratitude is monstrous and for the multitude to be ingrateful were to make a monster of the multitude of which we being members, should bring ourselves to be monstrous members.
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T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.
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Lovers and madmen have such seething brains Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends.
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