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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
Fields
Lodges
Cold
Inheritance
Open
Conquer
Often
Heat
True
France
Winter
Field
Summer
Lodge
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Nay, do not think I flatter. For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?
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The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar but not gone.
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Reason thus with life: If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep.
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Stones have been known to move and trees to speak.
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The Foole doth thinke he is wise, but the wiseman knowes himselfe to be a Foole.
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Those that much covet are with gain so fond, For what they have not, that which they possess They scatter and unloose it from their bond, And so, by hoping more, they have but less Or, gaining more, the profit of excess Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain, That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.
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Diseased Nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions.
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Men should be what they seem Or those that be not, would they might seem none!.
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Against love's fire fear`s frost hath dissolution
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Macbeth to Witches: What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, And yet are on 't?
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Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so And, being done, thus Wall away doth go.
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As chaste as unsunned snow.
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Take no repulse, whatever she doth say For 'get you gone,' she doth not mean 'away.' Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces
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This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,Was once thought honest.
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Shall I never see a bachelor of three score again?
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So many horrid Ghosts.
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The wounds invisible that Love's keen arrows make.
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He is well paid that is well satisfied.
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Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.
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I am thy father's spirit Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night And, for the day, confin'd to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, Are burnt and purg'd away.
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