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Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
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
Power
Juliet
Hath
Honey
Breath
Breaths
Beauty
Upon
Death
Suck
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Swift as shadow, short as any dream
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Myself will straight aboard, and to the state This heavy act with heavy heart relate.
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No place indeed should murder sanctuarize Revenge should have no bounds.
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My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
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For my own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
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Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds.
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Confess yourself to heaven, Repent what's past, avoid what is to come, And do not spread the compost on the weeds To make them ranker.
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Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you
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Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?
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My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
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For conspiracy, I know not how it tastes, though it be dished For me to try how.
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Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affection, Figures pedantical--these summer flies Have blown me full of maggot ostentation.
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The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly.
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Our enemies are our outward consciences.
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He is the most wretched of men who has never felt adversity.
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If [God] send me no husband, for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening.
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Get thee to a nunnery.
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Who has a book of all that monarchs do, He's more secure to keep it shut than shown For vice repeated is like the wand'ring wind, Blows dust in others' eye, to spread itself And yet the end of all is bought thus dear, The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear To stop the air would hurt them.
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Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
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Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear.
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