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How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
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
Stills
Still
Hang
Clouds
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I love you more than word can wield the matter, Dearer than eye-sight, space and liberty
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I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
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In nature there's no blemish but the mind. None can be called deformed but the unkind.
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I drink to the general joy o’ the whole table. Macbeth
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Policy sits above conscience.
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My salad days, When I was green in judgment.
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The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down.
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That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw-bone, that did the first murder! It might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o'er-reaches one that would circumvent God, might it not?
William Shakespeare
To climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.
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A miracle. Here's our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee, but by this light I take thee for pity. Beatrice: I would not deny you, but by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption. Benedick: Peace. I will stop your mouth.
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Some men never seem to grow old. Always active in thought, always ready to adopt new ideas, they are never chargeable with foggyism. Satisfied, yet ever dissatisfied, settled, yet ever unsettled, they always enjoy the best of what is, are the first to find the best of what will be.
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O polished perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night.
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My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.
William Shakespeare
Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
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They that touch pitch will be defiled.
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A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.
William Shakespeare
Keep thy friend Under thy own life's key.
William Shakespeare
To whom God will, there be the victory.
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In jest, there is truth.
William Shakespeare
We see which way the stream of time doth run.
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