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Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
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
Cold
Inheritance
Open
Conquer
Often
Heat
True
France
Winter
Field
Summer
Lodge
Fields
Lodges
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Fare thee well, king: sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.
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What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
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Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?
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Every good servant does not all commands.
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What's done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.
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This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
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Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?
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The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.
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This feather stirs she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.
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Fie, fie upon her! There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her body.
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Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliances are relieved, Or not at all.
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To fear the worst oft cures the worst.
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Pardon's the word to all.
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And it is very much lamented,... That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye That you might see your shadow.
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O, she's warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.
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Who has a book of all that monarchs do, He's more secure to keep it shut than shown For vice repeated is like the wand'ring wind, Blows dust in others' eye, to spread itself And yet the end of all is bought thus dear, The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear To stop the air would hurt them.
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I dreamt my lady came and found me dead . . . . . . . . . . . . And breathed such life with kisses in my lips That I revived and was an emperor.
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Vanity keeps persons in favor with themselves who are out of favor with all others.
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The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.
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Music can minister to minds diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with its sweet oblivious antidote, cleanse the full bosom of all perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart.
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