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I will instruct my sorrows to be proud for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.
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
Instruct
Sorrow
Stoops
Proud
Owner
Makes
Sorrows
Owners
Sadness
Misery
Stoop
Grief
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Nothing comes from doing nothing.
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Anger's my meat. I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding.
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None can cure their harms by wailing them.
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Truth will come to sight murder cannot be hid long.
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A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.
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Within the book and volume of thy brain.
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I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
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Thou art a very ragged Wart.
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Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward, But then woos best when most his choice is froward.
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Opinion crowns with an imperial voice.
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... by indirections find directions out.
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We are ready to try our fortunes to the last man.
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I do begin to have bloody thoughts.
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The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.
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Violent fires soon burn out themselves, small showers last long, but sudden storms are short he tires betimes that spurs too fast.
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We are such stuff as dreams are made on and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
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I am misanthropos, and hate mankind, For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something.
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Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud And after summer evermore succeeds Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold: So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.
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Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live regist'red upon our brazen tombs And then grace us in the disgrace of death When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, Th' endeavor of this present breath may buy That honor which shall bate his scythe's keen edge And make us heirs of all eternity.
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How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank Here we will sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears soft stillness, and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony
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