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If by chance I talk a little wild, forgive me I had it from my father.
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
Talk
Chance
Father
Littles
Little
Forgive
Forgiving
Wild
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!
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Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me?
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The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Shall come again, transform'd to orient pearl, Advantaging their loan with interest Of ten times double gain of happiness.
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If [God] send me no husband, for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening.
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What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel? *Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*
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The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.
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For so work the honey bees, creatures that by a rule in nature teach the act of order to a peopled kingdom.
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The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
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A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.
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O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a robe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such pain the cap of him that makes him fine Yet keeps his book uncrossed.
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Zounds! sir, you are one of those that will not serve God if the devil bid you.
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Travelers must be content.
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O, Thou hast damnable iteration and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.
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A woman's thought runs before her actions.
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How hard it is to hide the sparks of Nature!
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I'll have no husband, if you be not he.
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The world is grown so bad, That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.
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One sees more devils than vast hell can hold
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Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger
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Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repair Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen Neither in inward worth nor outward fair Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
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