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O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven keep me in temper I would not be mad!
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
Would
Lear
Temper
Mad
Madness
Sweet
Heaven
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More quotes by William Shakespeare
Give thy thoughts no tongue, nor any unproportioned thought his act. Be thou familiar but by no means vulgar.
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Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.
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A man can die but once.
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Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
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Melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.
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Too much to know is to know nought but fame And every godfather can give a name.
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So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.
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Oh, that way madness lies let me shun that.
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The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.
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A young man married is a man that's marred.
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What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!
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Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy.
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I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
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I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.
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What e'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time.
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With caution judge of probability. Things deemed unlikely, e'en impossible, experience oft hath proved to be true.
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We cannot conceive of matter being formed of nothing, since things require a seed to start from... Therefore there is not anything which returns to nothing, but all things return dissolved into their elements.
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I have sounded the very base-string of humility.
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For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as tie heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me!
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My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind So flew'd, so sanded their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew.
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