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Ay, is it not a language I speak?
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
Language
Speak
More quotes by William Shakespeare
There's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year.
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We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars as if we were villians by compulsion.
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'Tis not to make me jealous To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company, Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well Where virtue is, these are more virtuous.
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I am ill at these numbers.
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Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary.
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Courage and comfort, all shall yet go well
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For she had eyes and chose me.
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Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this?
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We cannot fight for love, as men may do we shou'd be woo'd, and were not made to woo
William Shakespeare
Leave us to our free election.
William Shakespeare
But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly.
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New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous (Nay, let em be unmanly), yet are followed.
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Forget, forgive conclude, and be agreed.
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Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.
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Good God, the souls of all my tribe defend From jealousy!
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I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
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When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
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thy wit is a very bitter sweeting it is a most sharp sauce.
William Shakespeare
But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
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Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form
William Shakespeare
