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World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.
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
Age
Hate
Make
Would
Mutations
Life
Mutation
World
Yield
Thee
Strange
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Now I am past all comforts here, but prayer.
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When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.
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Let us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, Our children, and our sins, lay on the King!
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Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth. O these deliberate fools!
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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.
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Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange.
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Greatness knows itself.
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O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having. . . .
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Enough no more Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
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That we would do We should do when we would, for this 'would' changes, And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents, And then this 'should' is like a spendthrift sigh, That hurts by easing.
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Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both!
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The one I love is the son of the one I hate! -Juliet p. 75
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Bow, stubborn knees, and, heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe. All many be well.
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Woe to that land that's governed by a child.
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The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us.
William Shakespeare
Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
William Shakespeare
Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!
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Against ill chances men are ever merry, But heaviness foreruns the good event.
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My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.
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O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
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