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Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose. For whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed.
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
Flower
Perfumed
Whose
Aloft
Sweet
Milk
Shall
Raise
White
Raises
Smell
Rose
Air
More quotes by William Shakespeare
But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
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Be to yourself as you would to your friend.
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Things may serve long, but not serve ever.
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Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more.
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With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out
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What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.
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Will Fortune never come with both hands full, But write her fair words still in foulest terms?
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I love thee, I love thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.
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Out of her favour, where I am in love.
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Who is here so vile that will not love his country?
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Though inclination be as sharp as will, My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect.
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RUMOUR: Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, The which in every language I pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.
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A friend should bear his friend's infirmities.
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I can see he's not in your good books,' said the messenger. 'No, and if he were I would burn my library.
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If I had my mouth, I would bite if I had my liberty, I would do my liking. In the meantime, let me be that I am, and seek not toalter me.
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Pardon, gentles all, the flat unraised spirits that have dared on this unworthy scaffold to bring forth so great an object.
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which.
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Who can be patient in extremes?
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I am not in the giving vein today.
William Shakespeare
Who is it can read a woman?
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