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Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.
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
Would
Barren
Estates
Memorable
Ground
Sea
Thousand
Acre
Give
Tempest
Giving
Acres
More quotes by William Shakespeare
I am asham'd that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace.
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Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
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This liberty is all that I request.
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Sound trumpets! Let our bloody colours wave! And either victory, or else a grave.
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For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, I'll gild it with the happiest terms I have.
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I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others, to taste their valor.
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Dispute not with her: she is lunatic.
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Nature's tears are reason's merriment.
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Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.
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He that dies pays all debts.
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Who seeks, and will not take, when once 'tis offer'd, Shall never find it more.
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Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold.
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This is the third time I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away go. They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death.
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A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears: see how yond justice rails upon yon simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: change places and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief?
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We have some salt of our youth in us.
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Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.
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'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase you vile standing-tuck!
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Love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams Driving back shadows over low'ring hills. Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.
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Doubt thou the stars are fire Doubt that the sun doth move Doubt truth to be a liar But never doubt I love.
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So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.
William Shakespeare
