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A fusty nut with no kernel.
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
Sassy
Kernel
Nuts
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!
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And nothing is, but what is not.
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You cannot make gross sins look clear: To revenge is no valour, but to bear.
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Absence doth sharpen love, presence strengthens it the one brings fuel, the other blows it till it burns clear.
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Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma or a hideous dream.
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My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
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Adversity makes strange bedfellows.
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If ever (as that ever may be near) you meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, then shall you know the wounds invisible that love's keen, arrows make.
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If men could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in marriage.
William Shakespeare
Passion makes the will lord of the reason.
William Shakespeare
You, and your lady, Take from my heart all thankfulness!
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A young man married is a man that's marred.
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What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish a very ancient and fishlike smell a kind of not of the newest poor-John. A strange fish!
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To sue to live, I find I seek to die And, seeking death, find life: let it come on.
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That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)
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Oh, flatter me for love delights in praises.
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All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, An 'tis no better reckoned but of these Who worship dirty gods.
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To unpathed waters, undreamed shores.
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The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves, Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.
William Shakespeare
O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip Hath virgined it e'er since.
William Shakespeare
