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Graze on my lips and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
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
Lips
Erotic
Passion
Sensual
Lying
Fountain
Funny
Dry
Graze
Lower
Fondling
Hills
Fountains
Pleasant
Stray
Sexy
Naughty
More quotes by William Shakespeare
For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.
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I hold him but a fool that will endanger His body for a girl that loves him not.
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There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered.
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Because I cannot flatter and look fair, Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive, and cog, Duck with French nods and apish courtesy, I must be held a rancorous enemy.
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I will despair, and be at enmity With cozening hope.
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If thou dost love, proclaim it faithfully.
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Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may hear.
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At Christmas, I no more desire a rose.
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If you be King, why should not I succeed?
William Shakespeare
Thou art all the comfort, The Gods will diet me with.
William Shakespeare
Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
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Master, go on, and I will follow thee To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.
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Ready to go but never to return.
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Do not spread the compost on the weeds.
William Shakespeare
Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.
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For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.
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Talking isn't doing. It is a kind of good deed to say well and yet words are not deeds.
William Shakespeare
He's of the colour of the nutmeg. And of the heat of the ginger.... he is pure air and fire and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him he is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts.
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Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more.
William Shakespeare
Ay me! sad hours seem long.
William Shakespeare
