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Thou art the Mars of malcontents.
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
Art
Malcontents
Malcontent
Mars
Memorable
Thou
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, Manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man
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Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear a robust periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings.
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In delay there lies no plenty.
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There is no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrown.
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The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack: the round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens.
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Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane, Drink off this potion!
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Abandon all remorse On horror's head horrors accumulate.
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Be not afraid of greatness.
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Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?
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And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of brothers For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother
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Thou know'st 'tis common all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.
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Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affection, Figures pedantical--these summer flies Have blown me full of maggot ostentation.
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Be still prepared for death: and death or life shall thereby be the sweeter.
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Good God, the souls of all my tribe defend From jealousy!
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For I can raise no money by vile means.
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If ever thou be'st bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage.
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The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.
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Anger's my meat. I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding.
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What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living? Beatrice: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?
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Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green.
William Shakespeare