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Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!
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
Vices
Subject
Subjects
Lord
Lying
Inspirational
Men
Time
Vice
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny. It hath been Th' untimely emptying of the happy throne And fall of many kings.
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Who could refrain that had a heart to love and in that heart courage to make love known?
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I can see his pride Peep through each part of him.
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What else may hap, to time I will commit.
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The tempter or the tempted, who sins most? Ha! Not she: nor doth she tempt: but it is I That, lying by the violet in the sun, Do as the carrion does, not as the flower, Corrupt with virtuous season.
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Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine.
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Ten masts make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. Thy life's a miracle.
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My long sickness Of health and living now begins to mend, And nothing brings me all things.
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You taught me language, and my profit on't / Is, I know how to curse
William Shakespeare
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
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O' thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? I doubt it not and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come.
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But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.
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What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time?
William Shakespeare
Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle!
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There's some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable.
William Shakespeare
The eagle suffers little birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby, Knowing that with the shadow of his wings He can at pleasure stint their melody: Even so mayest thou the giddy men of Rome.
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A happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story
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She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.
William Shakespeare
My charity is outrage, life my shame And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!
William Shakespeare
Tis gold Which buys admittance--oft it doth--yea, and makes Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up This deer to th' stand o' th' stealer: and 'tis gold Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief, Nay, sometimes hangs both thief and true man.
William Shakespeare
