Quote

Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops. Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.

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
Like
Candles
Melancholy
Candle
Burned
Stands
Tinged
Hope
Tiptoe
Night
Tiptoes
Life
Misty

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He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea singing aloud Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn.
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Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do.
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Be as just and gracious unto me, As I am confident and kind to thee.
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What is aught but as 'tis valued?
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The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.
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To die: - to sleep: No more and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished.
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Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.
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Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
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Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
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Affection, mistress of passion, sways it to the mood of what it likes or loathes.
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I cannot speak your england.
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When a father gives to his son, both laugh when a son gives to his father, both cry.
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When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes.
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I do desire we may be better strangers.
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Dirty days hath September April June and November From January up to May The rain it raineth every day All the rest have thirty-one Without a blessed gleam of sun And if any of them had two-and-thirty They'd be just as wet and twice as dirty. April hath put a spirit of youth in everything.
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Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love
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Few love to hear the sins they love to act.
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'Tis the soldier's life to have their balmy slumbers waked with strife.
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O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love... 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.
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