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Not stepping over the bounds of modesty.
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
Love
Stepping
Modesty
Bounds
More quotes by William Shakespeare
The world is grown so bad, That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.
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There is a history in all men's lives, Figuring the nature of the times deceased, The which observed, a man may prophesy, With a near aim, of the main chance of things As yet not come to life, which in their seeds And weak beginnings lie intreasured.
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Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.
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I thought my heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion.
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Like madness, is the glory of this life.
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And a man's life's no more than to say One.
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Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears Moist it again, and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity.
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Give to a gracious message An host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell Themselves when they be felt.
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Journeys end in lovers meeting.
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For she had eyes and chose me.
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The best quarrels, in the heat, are cursed by those that feel their sharpness.
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Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy.
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How many a holy and obsequious tear hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye, as interest of the dead!
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I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.
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The chameleon Love can feed on the air
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It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion and all made of wishes, All adoration, duty, and observance, All humbleness, all patience and impatience, All purity, all trial, all observance
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What e'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time.
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Each present joy or sorrow seems the chief.
William Shakespeare
What's past and what's to come is strew'd with husks And formless ruin of oblivion.
William Shakespeare
Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!
William Shakespeare
