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Let never day nor night unhallowed pass, but still remember what the Lord hath done.
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
Still
Hath
Done
Appreciation
Never
God
Pass
Lord
Night
Stills
Unhallowed
Remember
Thankfulness
More quotes by William Shakespeare
O gentle son, Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper, sprinkle cool patience.
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To England will I steal, and there I'll steal.
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A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loath'd than an effeminate man.
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Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the tailor make thy garments of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is opal.
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Be checked for silence, But never taxed for speech.
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Be merry you have cause, so have we all, of joy for our escape is much beyond our loss . . . . then wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.
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Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house as your pearl in your foul oyster.
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Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.
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O time, thou must untangle this, not I. It is too hard a knot for me t'untie.
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But jealous souls will not be answered so, They are not ever jealous for the cause, But jealous for they're jealous. 'Tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself.
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The arms are fair, When the intent of bearing them is just.
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You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age wretched in both.
William Shakespeare
But 'tis common proof, that lowliness is young ambition's ladder, whereto the climber-upward turns his face but when he once attains the upmost round, he then turns his back, looks in the clouds, scorning the vase defrees by which he did ascend.
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Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear.
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Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil With them forgive yourself.
William Shakespeare
My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except.
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What a terrible era in which idiots govern the blind.
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But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph.
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I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.
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To pore upon a book, to seek the light of truth.
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