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Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?
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
Face
Faces
Matter
February
Frost
Storm
Full
More quotes by William Shakespeare
He says, he loves my daughter I think so too for never gaz'd the moon Upon the water, as he'll stand and read, As 'twere, my daughter's eyes: and, to be plain, I think, there is not half a kiss to choose, Who loves another best.
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Love is too young to know what conscience is.
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Awake, dear heart, awake. Thou hast slept well. Awake.
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Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon as done.
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Beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time.
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where civil blood makes civil hands unclean
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Prosperity's the very bond of love.
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The wildest hath not such a heart as you. Run when you will, the story shall be changed: Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase The dove pursues the griffin the mild hind Makes speed to catch the tiger bootless speed, When cowardice pursues and valour flies.
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What a deformed thief this fashion is.
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Thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.
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My charity is outrage, life my shame And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!
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The apparel oft proclaims the man.
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Cry havoc! and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
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If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
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Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood.
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Bait the hook well. This fish will bite.
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There's nothing in this world can make me joy.
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Life is as tedious as twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
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I am now of all humors that have showed themselves humors since the old days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o'clock at midnight.
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There is a devilish mercy in the judge, if you'll implore it, that will free your life, but fetter you till death.
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