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Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
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
Thou
Blood
Art
Embossed
Boil
Sore
Corrupted
Plague
Insult
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Report me and my cause aright.
William Shakespeare
Faith, stay here this night they will surely do us no harm you saw they speak us fair, give us gold methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch.
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Desire of having is the sin of covetousness.
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Never anger made good guard for itself.
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Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?
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A hit, a very palpable hit.
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This day I breathed first: time is come round, And where I did begin there shall I end My life is run his compass.
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By how much unexpected, by so much We must awake endeavour for defence For courage mounteth with occasion.
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For 'tis the sport to have the engineer Hoist with his own petar and't shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon.
William Shakespeare
We cannot all be masters.
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Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.
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Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.
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Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more Or close the wall with our English dead.
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And, if you love me, as I think you do, let's kiss and part, for we have much to do
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Set honour in one eye and death i' the other, And I will look on both indifferently.
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Cheerily to sea the signs of war advance: No king of England, if not king of France
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Now is the winter of our discontent.
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For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.
William Shakespeare
'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be, receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed, Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing.
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Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies
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