Quote

Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency?

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
Men
Born
Insufficiency
Hands
Wherefore
Young
Mockery
Look
Keen
Looks
Scorn
Enough
Deserve
Must
Sweet
Never
Eye
Flout

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Good old grandsire ... we shall be joyful of thy company.
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The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.
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My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, That I must love a loathed enemy.
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Officers, what offence have these men done? DOGBERRY Marry, sir, they have committed false report moreover, they have spoken untruths secondarily, they are slanders sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady thirdly, they have verified unjust things and, to conclude, they are lying knaves.
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Twas never merry world Since lowly feigning was called compliment.
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Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.
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a girl takes too much time to love and a few seconds to hate. but a boy takes a few seconds to love and too much time to hate.
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Wise men never sit and wail their loss, but cheerily seek how to redress their harms.
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For grief is crowned with consolation.
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Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.
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He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.
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Fools are not mad folks.
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That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.
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. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.
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Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
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Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God, My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.
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Bounty, being free itself, thinks all others so.
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