Quote

If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

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
Hand
Gentle
Blushing
Hands
Kissing
Profane
Two
Lips
Juliet
Touch
Pilgrim
Holy
Tender
Fine
Smooth
Shrine
Ready
Rough
Pilgrims
Stand
Kiss
Shrines

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Get thee glass eyes, and like a scurvy politician, seem to see the things thou dost not.
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As for my wife, I would you had her spirit in such another The third o' th' world is yours, which with a snaffle You may pace easy, but not such a wife.
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Men at some time are masters of their fates.
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[S]ince brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.
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The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove.
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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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Things may serve long, but not serve ever.
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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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But there is no such man for, brother, men Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel but, tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before Would give preceptial medicine to rage, Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air and agony with words.
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When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threatening the welkin with his big-swollen face?
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Thou unfit for any place but hell.
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Death lies on her like an untimely frost.
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Come my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers they hold up Adam's profession.
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It is the cowish terror of his spirit that dares not undertake he'll not feel wrongs which tie him to an answer.
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Silence is the perfect herald of joy.
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Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful
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Time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will.
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The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.
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The happiest youth, viewing his progress through, What perils past, what crosses to ensue, Would shut the book, and sit him down and die.
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