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We will all laugh at gilded butterflies.
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
Laughing
Gilded
Butterflies
Butterfly
Laugh
More quotes by William Shakespeare
It is the very error of the moon She comes more nearer earth than she was wont, And makes men mad.
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Remember thee! Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat In this distracted globe.
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There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.
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I always thought it was both impious and unnatural that such immanity and bloody strife should reign among professors of one faith.
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O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts. Possess them not with fear.
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One fire burns out another's burning, One pain is lessen'd by another's anguish.
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Soft pity enters an iron gate.
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The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
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Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Be absent hence!
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a young woman in love always looks like patience on a monument smiling at grief
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Fight to the last gasp.
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I have lived long enough. My way of life is to fall into the sere, the yellow leaf, and that which should accompany old age, as honor, love, obedience, troops of friends I must not look to have.
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Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose. For whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed.
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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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Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
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Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!
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My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming I love not less, though less the show appear: That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
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Reflection is the business of man a sense of his state is his first duty: but who remembereth himself in joy? Is it not in mercy then that sorrow is allotted unto us?
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A very scurvy fellow.
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To be in love- where scorn is bought with groans, Coy looks with heart-sore sighs, one fading moment's mirth With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain If lost, why then a grievous labour won However, but a folly bought with wit, Or else a wit by folly vanquished.
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