Lordy Lordy, Bill Shakespeare’s 445

Writers and Poets! Musicians and thieves alike! Remove your caps and raise a BPA free, portable, thermal, recyclable and child proof cup full of organic wine and toast! For ye olde Bard marks his 445th birthday TODAYYYYYYYYYYY!

Alright, I’m not one of ‘those’ people who has William Shakespeare’s litany of sonnets, shorts and plays memorized in chronological order…. I do however have a few favorite lines that plunge deep into the depths of my liking, rendering me–renewing my awe at his genius for words…. and story telling…. And if you haven’t ventured outside the realms of your high school Shakespeare requirements, I’d suggest you give him a try now that you’re in your adult life…

For lack of a few better words (still entirely fitting) these favorites make my heart skip a beat:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing


Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-
cross’d lovers take their life;
misadventur’d piteous overthrows
Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife
he chorus, Romeo & Juliet

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy

Four days will quickly steep themselves in night;

Four nights will quickly dream away the time;
And then the moon like silver into a bow
New-bent in heaven shall behold the night
Of our solemnities
–Hippolyta, A Midsummer’s Night Dream

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were
fill’d with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say ‘This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne’er
touch’d earthly faces.’
So should my papers
yellow’d with their age
scorn’d like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be
term’d a poet’s rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme

–Sonnet XVII

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