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Thou art a very ragged Wart.
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
Wart
Warts
Ragged
Hilarious
Thou
Art
More quotes by William Shakespeare
We that are true lovers run into strange capers.
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Rude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.
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O polished perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night.
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This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror.
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I had rather chop this hand off at a blow, And with the other fling it at thy face.
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Few things loves better Than to abhor himself.
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For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
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Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.
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O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a vixen when she went to school And though she be but little, she is fierce.
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Do all men kill the things they do not love?
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Done to death by slanderous tongue
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You know that love Will creep in service where it cannot go.
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Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
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A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by'r Lady, inclining to threescore and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff.
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No particular scandal one can touch but it confounds the breather.
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You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.
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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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Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
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Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
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Love is merely a madness.
William Shakespeare
