|Shakespeare totally did not write this shit.|
Let’s go hand in hand, not one before another.
And more such days as these to us befall!
One feast, one house, one mutual happiness.
See high order in this solemnity. Let us not leave till all our own is won.
Never was a war did cease (ere bloody hands were wash’d) with such a peace.
Never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo,
For their sake in your fair minds let this acceptance take.
Grace my mournings here in weeping after this untimely bier.
I will rule both her, the King, and realm.
Yet he shall have a noble memory. For here, I hope begins our lasting joy.
Your gentle hand lend us and take our hearts.
Nought shall make us rue if England to itself do rest but true!
Where, in a happy hour, I trust, we shall arrive, three kings, two princes, and a queen.
We that are young shall never see so much, nor live so long.
Well, while I live, I’ll fear no other thing so sore, as keeping safe Nerissa’s ring;
To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word, for he to-night shall lie with Mistress Ford.
(‘Tis wonder, by your leave, she will be tam’d so.
Her life was beastly and devoid of pity, and being dead, let birds on her take pity.)
Till then I’ll sweat and seek about for eases, and at that time bequeath you my diseases.
Myself with straight aboard, and to the state this heavy act with heavy heart relate;
Let's sadly hence to perfect unknown fates, whilst he tends prograce to the state of states.
(The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo,
My tongue is weary, when my legs are too, I will bid you good night.)
So bring us to our palace, where we’ll show what’s yet behind that’s meet you all should know.
So thanks to all at once, and to each one, whom we invite to see us crown’d at Scone.
Give me your hands if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.
So call the field to rest, and let’s away, to part the glories of this happy day.
As you from crimes would pardon’d be, let your indulgence set me free.
Hastily lead away.
We’ll strive to please you every day.
God say Amen, bid me farewell.
Ladies, bid ‘em clap.
Strike up, pipers! Let our drums strike!
Go bid the soldiers shoot.
William Shakespeare of Stratford-Upon-Avon died four hundred years ago, on April 23, 1616. These are the final lines from each of the forty plays he is known to have written or to which he is thought to have contributed.