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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
Friend
Restored
Ends
Losses
Think
Sorrows
Thinking
Thee
Dear
Sorrow
Friendship
Loss
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Ingrateful man with liquorish draughts, and morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind that from it all consideration slips.
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I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself.
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To have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
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Go wisely and slowly. Those who rush stumble and fall.
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The curse of marriage That we can call these delicate creatures ours And not their appetites!
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The jury passing on the prisoner's life may in the sworn twelve have a thief or two guiltier than him they try.
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Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate
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My grief lies all within, And these external manners of lament Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swells with silence in the tortured soul.
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The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.
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I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip
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I heard a bustling rumor like a fray, And the wind blows it from the Capitol.
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Time's glory is to command contending kings, To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light.
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Hate pollutes the mind.
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So may I, blind fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving.
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O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having. . . .
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Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but backrout quite the wits.
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Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.
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Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God, My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.
William Shakespeare
My soul is in the sky.
William Shakespeare
Will you walk out of the air, my lord? HAMLET Into my grave.
William Shakespeare
