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Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
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
Marriage
Coldly
Horatio
Furnish
Thrift
Funeral
Meat
Forth
Tables
Meats
More quotes by William Shakespeare
My dear, dear Lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation that away Men are but gilded loan or painted clay... Mine honor is my life both grow in one Take honor from me, and my life is done.
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They love least that let men know their loves.
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Do not speak like a death's-head, do not bid me remember mine end.
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Young men's love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
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Let me say amen betimes lest the devil cross my prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew.
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This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,Was once thought honest.
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Maids want nothing but husbands, and when they have them, they want everything.
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Sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care.
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Take no repulse, whatever she doth say For 'get you gone,' she doth not mean 'away.' Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces
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Modest wisdom plucks me from over-credulous haste.
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What many men desire--that 'many' may be meant By the fool multitude that choose by show, Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach, Which pries not to th' interior, but like the martlet Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty.
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Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.
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The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman and to be King Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor.
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One pain is lessened by another's anguish.
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Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.
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The art of our necessities is strange That can make vile things precious.
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'Twas merry when You wagered on your angling, when your diver Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up.
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Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish her election, Sh'ath sealed thee for herself.
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Is not the truth the truth?
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For now they kill me with a living death.
William Shakespeare
