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They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.
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
Lies
Whose
Imagine
Beholds
Within
Bosom
Lying
Bosoms
Eye
Guilt
Every
Shame
Blame
More quotes by William Shakespeare
What should we speak of When we are old as you? when we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December? how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse The freezing hours away?
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The devil shall have his bargain for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs--he will give the devil his due.
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A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!
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Thanks to men Of noble minds, is honorable meed.
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Many a true word hath been spoken in jest.
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Kindness nobler ever than revenge.
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Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you
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See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
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I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.
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Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn but I shall have my pocket picked?
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Ruin has taught me to ruminate, That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
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As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods they kill us for their sport.
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As good luck would have it.
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All furnished, all in arms All plum'd like estridges that with the wind Bated like eagles having lately bathed Glittering in golden coats like images As full of spirit as the month of May And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
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Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes.
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Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud but, God He knows, thy share thereof is small.
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This day's black fate on more days doth depend This but begins the woe, others must end.
William Shakespeare
I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.
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I have a kind soul that would give you thanks. And knows not how to do it but with tears.
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If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
William Shakespeare
