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But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.
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
Mines
Compounded
Mine
Travels
Objects
Wraps
Often
Melancholy
Many
Contemplation
Humorous
Rumination
Sadness
Sundry
Indeed
Extracted
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Should the poor be flattered? No let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, and crook the pregnant hinges of the knee where thrift may follow fawning.
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I am ill at these numbers.
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These blessed candles of the night.
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Alas, I am a woman friendless, hopeless!
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Forget, forgive conclude, and be agreed.
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What, man, defy the devil. Consider, he's an enemy to mankind.
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Strong reasons make strong actions let us go If you say ay, the king will not say no.
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For now I stand as one upon a rock environed with a wilderness of sea, who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, expecting ever when some envious surge will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
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Proper deformity shows not in the fiend So horrid as in woman.
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I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire, But qualify the fire's extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.
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That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
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And either victory, or else a grave.
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This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror.
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Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments: love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds.
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Honesty is the best policy. If I lose mine honor, I lose myself.
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Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining.
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But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.
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I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
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Patience is sottish, and impatience does become a dog that's mad.
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What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.
William Shakespeare
