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So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune, That I would set my life on any chance, To mend, or be rid on't.
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
Disasters
Weary
Disaster
Fortune
Chance
Would
Life
Mend
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Experience teacheth that resolution is a sole help in need.
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By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
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Love, which teacheth me that thou and I am one
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If one good deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very soul.
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This sleep is sound indeed this is a sleep That from this golden rigol hath divorc'd So many English kings.
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Yet but three come one more. Two of both kinds make up four. Ere she comes curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad. Thus to make poor females mad.
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Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
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I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness, And from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting.
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You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!
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God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.
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The will of man is by his reason sway'd.
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It is thyself, mine own self's better part Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.
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Who could refrain that had a heart to love and in that heart courage to make love known?
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He says, he loves my daughter I think so too for never gaz'd the moon Upon the water, as he'll stand and read, As 'twere, my daughter's eyes: and, to be plain, I think, there is not half a kiss to choose, Who loves another best.
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You'd be so lean, that blast of January Would blow you through and through. Now, my fair'st friend, I would I had some flowers o' the spring that might Become your time of day.
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And writers say, as the most forward bud Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, Even so by love the young and tender wit Is turn'd to folly, blasting in the bud, Losing his verdure even in the prime, And all the fair effects of future hopes.
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Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliances are relieved, Or not at all.
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The dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.
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A dream itself is but a shadow.
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Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offense?
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