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Now, God be praised, that to believing souls gives light in darkness, comfort in despair.
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
Darkness
Gives
Inspirational
Praised
Light
Believing
Soul
Souls
Giving
Cancer
Believe
Despair
Comfort
More quotes by William Shakespeare
His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.
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To be slow in words is a woman's only virtue.
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It is a familiar beast to man, and signifies love.
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Your praises will become your wages.
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Base is the slave that pays.
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Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends.
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So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Here's three on's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself unaccommodated man is no more than such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art.
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Such thanks as fits a king's remembrance.
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When beggars die, there are no comets seen the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
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Slander lives upon succession, For ever housed where it gets possession.
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she shall scant show well that now shows best.
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All the world's a stage, and all the men and women mearly players.
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In springtime, the only pretty ring time Birds sing, hey ding A-ding, a-ding Sweet lovers love the spring—
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Glory is like a circle in the water, which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, till, by broad spreading, it disperse to naught.
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The painful warrior famous for fight, After a thousand victories, once foil'd, Is from the books of honor razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd
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Men have marble, women waxen, minds.
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I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme. . .
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Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.
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The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.
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