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The evil that men do lives after them the good is oft interred with their bones.
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
Bones
Ears
Wisdom
Evil
Interred
Lives
Plebeians
Good
Julius
Men
Countrymen
Life
Wickedness
More quotes by William Shakespeare
The heart hath treble wrong When it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue.
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A dream itself is but a shadow.
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What made me love thee? let that persuade thee, there's something extraordinary in thee
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O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
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Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all!
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Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.
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Poor and content is rich, and rich enough.
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Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
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I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born.
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As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free.
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The Devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape.
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Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
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All furnished, all in arms All plum'd like estridges that with the wind Bated like eagles having lately bathed Glittering in golden coats like images As full of spirit as the month of May And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
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The object of Art is to give life a shape.
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Zounds! I was never so bethumped with words since I first called my brother's father dad.
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How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
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Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter.
William Shakespeare
O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with Time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face. But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?
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I may neither choose who I would, nor refuse who I dislike so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father.
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His worst fault is, he's given to prayer he is something peevish that way.
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