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He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.
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
Speak
Holiday
May
Speaks
Writing
Smell
Capers
Dancing
Dances
Dance
Smells
Youth
April
Eyes
Verses
Eye
Writes
More quotes by William Shakespeare
All men's faces are true, whatsome'er their hands are.
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Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.
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Never anything can be amiss, when simpleness and duty tender it.
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Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.
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. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.
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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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Dreams, indeed, are ambition for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. And I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow's shadow.
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Slander lives upon succession, For ever housed where it gets possession.
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... by indirections find directions out.
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Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
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This night I hold an old accustomed feast, Whereto I have invited many a guest, Such as I love and you among the store, One more, most welcome, makes my number more.
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I understand a fury in your words But not your words.
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Discomfort guides my tongue And bids me speak of nothing but despair.
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Take pains. Be perfect.
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The present eye praises the present object.
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Welcome ever smiles, and farewell goes out sighing.
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I'll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him.
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How slow This old moon wanes! she lingers my desires, Like to a stepdame, or a dowager, Long withering out a young man's revenue.
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Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O any thing, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this.
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Anger's my meat. I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding.
William Shakespeare
