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Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow, And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow Thou canst help time to furrow me with age, But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage.

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
Helping
Nights
Wrinkle
Night
Thou
Canst
Time
Grief
Sullen
Sorrow
Pilgrimage
Days
Pluck
Stop
Lend
Age
Morrow
Furrow
Help
Wrinkles
Shorten

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Yea from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records.
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Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
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Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.
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Like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring: when a' was naked, he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife.
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Put money in thy purse.
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It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, and that craves wary walking.
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So. Lie there, my art.
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Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin.
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For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg.
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Death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!
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A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it. It ascends me into the brain,... makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes.
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Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.
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The instances that second marriage move Are base respects of thrift, but none of love.
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What should a man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within's two hours.
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In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.
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What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy if Sylvia be not by?
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O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. - Romeo -
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