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They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad
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
Molded
Faults
Become
Littles
Best
Better
Little
Much
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all, all shall die.
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But now I am cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in To saucy doubts and fears.
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Bell, book and candle shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on.
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Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.
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The object of Art is to give life a shape.
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Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art, A good mouth-filling oath.
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The fool multitude, that choose by show, not learning more than the fond eye doth teach.
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Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
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Live how we can, yet die we must.
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Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?
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Come my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers they hold up Adam's profession.
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Oh, I have passed a miserable night, so full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams!
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This night I hold an old accustomed feast, Whereto I have invited many a guest, Such as I love and you among the store, One more, most welcome, makes my number more.
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What, man, defy the devil. Consider, he's an enemy to mankind.
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But shall we wear these glories for a day? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?
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O' thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? I doubt it not and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come.
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The one I love is the son of the one I hate! -Juliet p. 75
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Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men?
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The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart-see, they bark at me.
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Despair and die. The ghosts
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