You gave us words, and worlds.
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun;
Nor the furious winter’s rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney sweepers come to dust.Fear no more the frown of the great,
Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dread thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!
Shakespeare, I LOVE YOU. Dearly.
Happy birthday.
Happy birthday, Will!
Happy birthday Shakespeare! *excessive amounts of admiration and love*
A very merry birthday to the bard!
Thou art as wise as thou art [not, at least not anymore] beautiful.
Hey Shakespeare. I find it hard to believe that a single, lower class, barely documented person could have so much intimate knowledge with such a wide range of subject material as is demonstrated in your plays. But whether you wrote them or not, happy birthday.
Well, duh, the Doctor helped him.At this point, when we honor Shakespeare, we’re essentially honoring the writer or writers of his plays, since that’s all most people remember about him. (They’re a fantastic legacy, to be sure, that’s why people remember him.) When people think “Shakespeare,” they think “writer of the Shakespearean plays.”I’m not sure if any of that made sense. I don’t know any of the “Shakespeare didn’t write the plays” theories, and I’m not convinced they’re true. But if my writing survived for centuries after my death, hailed as some of the greatest in history, with the name of a con-artist commoner attached instead of mine, I would consider it a small price to pay.
Happy birthday!
Although no one else in our school seems to appreciate reading Romeo and Juliet for English, thou art amazing.
In keeping with tradition here I must
Before this day has fled into the next
Salute my worthy cousin and my cat
Who share each year this April fest. Hail, Swab!
Thy fourteen years have made me smile each day.
♥
Aww … *melts from cuteness* *reforms* Wait, how do you know Swab’s birthday if you found him as a kitten?
She decided to assume it.
Actually, my first sight of him was the day after he was born, when he most resembled a Q-tip. His litter mates were all solid black, by the way. His mother, a feral cat who had taken up residency on the property, then whisked them away to a hiding place I never located. During another move she left him behind. He yelled with all his might, which is how I found him in the compost. His mom refused to take him back, so I took him in. He was between 2 and 3 weeks old then.
sooooooooooooooo sweet! I love your cat, and I want to sit for hours and pat it. I think that my own cat is getting jealous, because now she is viciously attacking me with her head. Sorry Soka! I love you too!
Happy birthday William! I am flailing desperately for a good pun, but I can’t think of one right now, so instead I will just sit here sending out vast waves of admiration, and love for Shakespeare, especially 12th night, which I saw recently, and looooooooooooved.
D’aww, Swab. ♥ Such a good kitty.
I remember when he curled up on the bottom of my sleeping bag and refused to move when I got in. I had very toasty feet that night.