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The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.
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
Past
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Music
Setting
Long
Sun
Things
Close
Taste
Writ
Sweet
Sweets
Lasts
Sweetest
Last
Sunset
More quotes by William Shakespeare
O teach me how I should forget to think (1.1.224)
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How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done!
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She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.
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O heresy in fair, fit for these days, A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.
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See the minutes, how they run, How many make the hour full complete How many hours bring about the day How many days will finish up the year How many years a mortal man may live.
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I see a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist.
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Alas, I am a woman friendless, hopeless!
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The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.
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By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death will seize the doctor too.
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My pride fell with my fortunes.
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O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.
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Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.
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Liberty plucks justice by the nose The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart Goes all decorum.
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Neither my place, nor aught I heard of business, Hath raised me from my bed nor doth the general care Take hold on me for my particular grief Is of so floodgate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself.
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Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound And through this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
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Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.
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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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Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man.
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In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?
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'Tis not to make me jealous To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company, Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well Where virtue is, these are more virtuous.
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