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Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
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
Traps
Kills
Love
Cupid
Arrows
More quotes by William Shakespeare
This thing of darkness I acknowlege mine. There is nothing more confining than the prison we don't know we are in.
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Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
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I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
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So doth the greater glory dim the less: A substitute shines brightly as a king Until a king be by.
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Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lies in sweetest bud. All men make faults.
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Love is too young to know what conscience is.
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He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.
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You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame
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Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night.
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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.
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The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.
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Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day.
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Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle!
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The devil knew what he did when he made men politic he crossed himself by it.
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I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge.
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Ay, but hearken, sir though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat.
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Go, bid the soldiers shoot.
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Zounds! I was never so bethumped with words since I first called my brother's father dad.
William Shakespeare
Though now this grained face of mine be hid In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow, And all the conduits of my blood froze up, Yet hath my night of life some memory, My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, My dull deaf ears a little use to hear.
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Ten masts make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. Thy life's a miracle.
William Shakespeare
