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Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.
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
Towards
Minutes
Ends
Make
Hasten
Like
Waves
Shore
Wave
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this?
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My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears, Two traded pilots 'twixt the dangerous shores Of will and judgment.
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A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish.
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A fusty nut with no kernel.
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GLOUCESTER: I do not know that Englishman alive With whom my soul is any jot at odds, More than the infant that is born to-night: I thank my God for my humility.
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The language I have learnt these forty years, My native English, now I must forgo And now my tongue's use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp, Or like a cunning instrument cased up Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony.
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I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
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Holy, fair, and wise is she The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be.
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No legacy is so rich as honesty.
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A sympathy in choice.
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The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.
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Life is as tedious as twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
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A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain.
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On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily.
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The curse of marriage That we can call these delicate creatures ours And not their appetites!
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Good fortune then! To make me blest or cursed'st among men.
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O time, thou must untangle this, not I. It is too hard a knot for me t'untie.
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These words are razors to my wounded heart.
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Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.
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Twas a clever quibble. Here, a garment for it.
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