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So. Lie there, my art.
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
Art
Lying
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Tis better using France than trusting France Let us be back'd with God, and with the seas, Which He hath given for fence impregnable, And with their helps only defend ourselves In them, and in ourselves, our safety lies.
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Celebrity is never more admired than by the negligent.
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Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
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Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain.
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The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves, Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.
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I have lov'd her ever since I saw her and still I see her beautiful
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There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
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The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.
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He that dies this year is quit for the next.
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Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so.
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If you shall marry, You give away this hand, and this is mine You give away heaven's vows, and those are mine You give away myself, which is known mine For I by vow am so embodied yours That she which marries you must marry me-- Either both or none.
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Good reasons must of force give place to better.
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If there were reason for these miseries, then into limits could I bind my woes. If the winds rages, doth not the sea wax mad, threat'ning the welkin with its big-swoll'n face? And wilt though have a reason for this coil? I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth blow. She is the weeping welkin, I the earth.
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No stony bulwark can resist the love, and love dares what anyone can love.
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When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes.
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Taste your legs, sire: put them into motion.
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Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!
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O sleep! O gentle sleep! Nature's soft nurse.
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Affliction may one day smile again and till then, sit thee down, sorrow!.
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My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except.
William Shakespeare
