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The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.
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
Memorable
Sea
Remorseful
Crept
Gaudy
Bosom
Bosoms
More quotes by William Shakespeare
No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns.
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Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.
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Should the poor be flattered? No let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, and crook the pregnant hinges of the knee where thrift may follow fawning.
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Do all men kill the things they do not love ............ The quality of mercy is not strain'd It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest It blesseth him that gives and him that takes
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Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.
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Adversity makes strange bedfellows.
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World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.
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If't be summer news, Smile to't before if winterly, thou need'st But keep that count'nance still.
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Fruits that blossom first will first be ripe.
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Then with the losers let it sympathize, For nothing can seem foul to those that win.
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Misery makes sport to mock itself.
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Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor
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While we lie tumbling in the hay.
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They that have voice of lions and act of hares,--are they not monsters?
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Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves.
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I cannot but remember such things were that were most precious to me.
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How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?
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I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.
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But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.
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What's the newest grief? Each minute tunes a new one.
William Shakespeare
