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There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distill it out.
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
Distill
Goodness
Evil
Soul
Things
Would
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Thou speak'st like him's untutored to repeat: Who makes the fairest show means most deceit.
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To have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
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I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.
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A Loud Laugh Bespeaks a Vacant Mind!
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Farewell, my sister, fare thee well. The elements be kind to thee, and make Thy spirits all of comfort: fare thee well.
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought
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When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.
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I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good Friends
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Small to greater matters must give way.
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Why, then the world ’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.
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Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man.
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Go, write it in a martial hand be curst and brief it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and fun of invention: taunt him with the licence of ink: if thou thou'st him some thrice, it shall not be amiss and as many lies as will lie in thy shee.
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What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!
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In maiden meditation, fancy free.
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For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.
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New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous (Nay, let em be unmanly), yet are followed.
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Poor wretches that depend On greatness' favor, dream as I have done Wake, and find nothing.
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Gold--what can it not do, and undo?
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And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.
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Retire me to my Milan, where Every third thought shall be my grave.
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