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No matter where of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth
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
Men
Talk
Bosoms
Eye
Worms
Speak
Graves
Write
Dust
Earth
Sorrow
Epitaphs
Matter
Comfort
Epitaph
Writing
Paper
Bosom
Make
Eyes
Rainy
More quotes by William Shakespeare
No, I will be the pattern of all patience I will say nothing.
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Can I go forward when my heart is here?
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Where hateful Death put on his ugliest mask.
William Shakespeare
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!
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Press not a falling man too far 'tis virtue: His faults lie open to the laws let them, Not you, correct him.
William Shakespeare
And do so, love, yet when they have devised What strainèd touches rhetoric can lend, Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathized In true plain words by thy true-telling friend And their gross painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood in thee it is abused.
William Shakespeare
They say, the tongues of dying men Enforce attention, like deep harmony Where words are scarce, they're seldom spent in vain For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain.
William Shakespeare
O you beast! I'll so maul you and your toasting-iron, That you shall think the devil is come from hell.
William Shakespeare
Of all the fair resort of gentlemen That every day with parle encounter me, In thy opinion which is worthiest love?
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Her father lov'd me oft invited me Still question'd me the story of my life, From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have pass'd.
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Have more than you show, Speak less than you know.
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Many strokes, though with a little axe, hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.
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As in a theatre, the eyes of men, after a well-graced actor leaves the stage, are idly bent on him that enters next.
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My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world!
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Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
William Shakespeare
He was not so much brain as earwax
William Shakespeare
Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth.
William Shakespeare
On Rumor's tongue continual slanders ride.
William Shakespeare
Comfort's in heaven, and we are on the earth
William Shakespeare
More matter with less art.
William Shakespeare
