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How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted over In states unborn and accents yet unknown!
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
Ages
Unknown
Scene
Unborn
Shall
Acted
Age
Lofty
States
Accents
Many
Hence
Memorable
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Love denied blights the soul we owe to God.
William Shakespeare
Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend Nor services to do till you require.
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Why, then the world ’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.
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But thy eternal summer shall not fade.
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Nothing can come of nothing.
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Our rash faults Make trivial price of serious thing we have, Not knowing them until we know their grave.
William Shakespeare
How every fool can play upon the word!
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O, what a world of vile ill-favored faults, looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!
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Have patience, and endure
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So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
William Shakespeare
Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, Nor age so eat up my invention, Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends, But they shall find awaked in such a kind Both strength of limb and policy of mind, Ability in means, and choice of friends, To quit me of them throughly.
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Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe
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The glowworm shows the matin to be near And gins to pale his uneffectual fire.
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You speak an infinite deal of nothing.
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Let each man do his best.
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Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace. Leave gormandizing.
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Every why hath a wherefore.
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Thieves for their robbery have authority When judges steal themselves.
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Every cloud engenders not a storm.
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Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And tune his merry note, Unto the sweet bird's throat Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.
William Shakespeare
