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Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth.
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
Worm
Worms
Thou
Birth
Even
Wast
Sassy
Vile
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Cry havoc! and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
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We are oft to blame in this, - 'tis too much proved, - that with devotion's visage, and pios action we do sugar o'er the devil himself.
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I'll look to like if looking, liking move.
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Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.
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When truth kills truth, O devilish holy fray!
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It is my soul that calls upon my name How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, like softest music to attending ears! -Romeo
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I and my bosom must debate awhile, and then I would no other company.
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To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little more than a little is by much too much.
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Talkers are no good doers.
William Shakespeare
Unquiet meals make ill digestions.
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So many miseries have craz'd my voice, That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.
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Say she rail why, I'll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown I'll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash'd with dew. Say she be mute and will not speak a word Then I'll commend her volubility, and say she uttereth piercing eloquence.
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I 'gin to be aweary of the sun, And wish th' estate o' th' world were now undone.
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Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.
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No man's pie is freed From his ambitious finger.
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Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.
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In time we hate that which we often fear.
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O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
William Shakespeare
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime...
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Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger, Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.
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