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Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod.
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
Plod
Mares
Patience
Tired
Though
Mare
More quotes by William Shakespeare
There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.
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I had rather eleven died nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.
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Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valour As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem, Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,' Like the poor cat i' the adage?
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So many horrid Ghosts.
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You are not wood, you are not stones, but men.
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A very little little let us do And all is done.
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For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg.
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Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir.
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There is plenty of time to sleep in the grave
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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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She moves me not, or not removes at least affection's edge in me.
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Where is your ancient courage? You were used to say extremities was the trier of spirits That common chances common men could bear That when the sea was calm all boats alike showed mastership in floating.
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There's place and means for every man alive.
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Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.
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She speaks poniards, and every word stabs.
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought
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Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth.
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Many dream not to find, neither deserve, and yet are steeped in favors.
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ROSS You must have patience, madam. LADY MACDUFF He had none: His flight was madness: when our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors.
William Shakespeare
But love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offense, Crying, 'That's good that's gone.
William Shakespeare
