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She speaks poniards, and every word stabs.
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
Speak
Every
Stabs
Benedick
Speaks
Word
More quotes by William Shakespeare
The extreme parts of time extremely forms all causes to the purpose of his speed.
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Quote: What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?
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I'll have no husband, if you be not he.
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What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and god-like reason to fust in us unused.
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Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
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The king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temp'rance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them, but abound In the division of each several crime, Acting in many ways.
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Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes.
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Grief hath two tongues and never woman yet Could rule them both without ten women's wit.
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This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.
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For mine own part, it was Greek to me.
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My pride fell with my fortunes.
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Praise us as we are tasted, allow us as we prove.
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Death is my son-in-law. Death is my heir. My daughter he hath wedded. I will die, And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death’s.
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A sympathy in choice.
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This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.
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Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!
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Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
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The play's the thing.
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I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.
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Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
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