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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
Fair, kind, and true is all my argument, Fair, kind, and true varying to other words And in this change is my invention spent, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
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Coal-black is better than another hue In that it scorns to bear another hue For all the water in the ocean Can never turn the swan's black legs to white, Although she lave them hourly in the flood.
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The icy precepts of respect.
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For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
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You are thought here to the most senseless and fit man for the job.
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I am sure care's an enemy to life.
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I had rather be a kitten and cry mew Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers.
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My chastity's the jewel of our house, bequeathed down from many ancestors.
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Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
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Every why has a wherefore.
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For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
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What's done can't be undone.
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Of all the fair resort of gentlemen That every day with parle encounter me, In thy opinion which is worthiest love?
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Would the cook were o' my mind!
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I would with such perfection govern, sir, T'excel the golden age.
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...and then, in dreaming, / The clouds methought would open and show riches / Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked / I cried to dream again.
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Unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone.
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Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' th' season Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, Which some call nature's bastards.
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In sooth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me, you say it wearies you But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.
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