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O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
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
Muse
Invention
Fire
Heaven
Would
Ascend
Brightest
Inventor
Inventing
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Let me not live, after my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff of younger spirits.
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Behold the threaden sails, Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow'd sea, Breasting the lofty surge
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My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
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Nor age so eat up my invention.
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As good luck would have it.
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To pore upon a book, to seek the light of truth.
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So quick bright things come to confusion.
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I will instruct my sorrows to be proud for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.
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You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.
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Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
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Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more.
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The plants look up to heaven, from whence they have their nourishment.
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Then is it sin to rush into the secret house of death. Ere death dare come to us?
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Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
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Grief best is pleased with grief's society.
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Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep To sleep, perchance to dream—For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause, there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life
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What, keep a week away? Seven days and nights, Eightscore-eight hours, and lovers' absent hours More tedious than the dial eightscore times! O weary reckoning!
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All that glisters is not gold Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.
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Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought
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