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See the minutes, how they run, How many make the hour full complete How many hours bring about the day How many days will finish up the year How many years a mortal man may live.
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
Years
Full
Make
Days
Mortal
Men
Year
Finish
Time
Hours
Mortals
Running
Complete
May
Hour
Live
Minutes
Many
Bring
More quotes by William Shakespeare
I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools.
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So far be distant and good night, sweet friend: thy love ne'er alter, till they sweet life end
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Death-counterfeiting sleep.
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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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The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good. Pity is the virtue of the law, and none but tyrants use it cruelly.
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Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth
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Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile.
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I'll make death love me for I will contend Even with his pestilent scythe.
William Shakespeare
A lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing.
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Is she kind as she is fair?
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You are my true and honourable wife As dear to me as the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart.
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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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By the apostle Paul, shadows tonight Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers.
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Can it be chat modesty may more betray Our sense than woman's lightness?
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He that loves to be flattered is worthy o' the flatterer.
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True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.
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I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip
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Honor's thought Reigns solely in the breast of every man.
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Every great drama has its foreshadow.
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Better three hours too soon, than one hour to late.
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