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This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.
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
Good
Sauce
Men
Appetite
Wit
Stomach
Gives
Words
Better
Digest
Giving
Rudeness
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his own lie.
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Fear and niceness, the handmaids of all women, or more truly, woman its pretty self.
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Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.
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We cannot all be masters.
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Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade.
William Shakespeare
Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks
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And simple truth miscalled simplicity
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Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.
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And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
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Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.
William Shakespeare
Let's teach ourselves that honorable stop, Not to outsport discretion.
William Shakespeare
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
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Drink down all unkindness.
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How hard it is for women to keep counsel!
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I have a kind soul that would give you thanks. And knows not how to do it but with tears.
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You must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.
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Pain pays the income of each precious thing.
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O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart.-Helena
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The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark When neither is attended and I think The nightingale, if she should sing by day When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many thing by season seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection!
William Shakespeare
Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.
William Shakespeare
