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The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.
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
Swords
Charitable
Lift
Memorable
Lifts
Heaven
Peace
War
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Slanders, sir, for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging think amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams.
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The earth, that is nature's mother, is her tomb.
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Reason thus with life: If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep.
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Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?
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I have nothing Of woman in me now from head to foot I am marble-constant.
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All dark and comfortless.
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More matter with less art.
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Let me confess that we two must be twain, although our undivided loves are one.
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Too nice, and yet too true!
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Speak, what trade art thou? Why, sir, a carpenter. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What does thou with thy best apparel on?
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The day shall not be up so soon as I, To try the fair adventure of tomorrow.
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Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat Of habits devil, is angel yet in this.
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See first that the design is wise and just: that ascertained, pursue it resolutely do not for one repulse forego the purpose that you resolved to effect.
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Let's go hand in hand, not one before another.
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Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.
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He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.
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T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.
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Better three hours too soon, than one hour to late.
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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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O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
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