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Thou frothy tickle-brained hedge-pig!
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
Pigs
Thou
Frothy
Brained
Tickle
Hedge
More quotes by William Shakespeare
The world must be peopled!
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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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The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good. Pity is the virtue of the law, and none but tyrants use it cruelly.
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And what’s he then that says I play the villain?
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Twas never merry world Since lowly feigning was called compliment.
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A sad tale's best for winter. I have one of sprites and goblins.
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Faith, I have been a truant in the law And never yet could frame my will to it, And therefore frame the law unto my will.
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Come the three corners of the world in arms, and we shall shock them.
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My long sickness Of health and living now begins to mend, And nothing brings me all things.
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I scorn you, scurvy companion.
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Tis ever common That men are merriest when they are from home.
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A woman's thought runs before her actions.
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A substitute shines brightly as a king Until a king be by, and then his state Empties itself, as dot an inland brook Into the main of waters.
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I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.
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By God, I cannot flatter, I do defy The tongues of soothers! but a braver place In my heart's love hath no man than yourself. Nay, task me to my word approve me, lord.
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My love's more richer than my tongue.
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I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme. . .
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I never yet did hear, That the bruis'd heart was pierced through the ear
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I am thy father's spirit Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night And, for the day, confin'd to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, Are burnt and purg'd away.
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And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world! Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once That makes ingrateful man!
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