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But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.
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
Ends
Losses
Think
Sorrows
Thinking
Thee
Dear
Sorrow
Friendship
Loss
Friend
Restored
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Many a man's tongue shakes out his master's undoing.
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I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
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Oh, I have passed a miserable night, so full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams!
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But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
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Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
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I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The Genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.
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Oh God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea.
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There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men all perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.
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There is little choice in a barrel of rotten apples.
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What wouldst thou do, old man? Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak When power to flattery bows?
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Out, you tallow-face! You baggage!
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I do desire we may be better strangers.
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Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief.
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All surfeit is the father of much fast.
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The wound of peace is surety, Surety secure but modest doubt is called The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To th' bottom of the worst.
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When Caesar says, 'Do this', it is performed.
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A flock of blessings light upon thy back
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What should we speak of When we are old as you? when we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December? how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse The freezing hours away?
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What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?
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That which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in. and the best of me is diligence.
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