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Dreams are the children of idled minds.
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
Children
Mind
Minds
Dreams
Dream
More quotes by William Shakespeare
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence
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Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
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And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns.
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Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber.
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By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death will seize the doctor too.
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Look on beauty, and you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight.
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No matter where of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth
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And send him many years of sunshine days!
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What: is the jay more precious than the lark because his feathers are more beautiful?
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You have her father's love, Demetrius Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him!
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It is certain that either wise bearing or ignorant carriage is caught as men take diseases, one of another.
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Death lies on her like an untimely frost.
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There is flattery in friendship.
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What win I, if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?
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My heart is turned to stone I strike it, and it hurts my hand.
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If thou art rich, thou art poor for, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, and death unloads thee.
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Let us kill all lawyers
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But as the unthought-on accident is guilty To what we wildly do, so we profess Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies Of every wind that blows.
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Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie, And young affection gapes to be his heir That fair for which love groan'd for and would die, With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.
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Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.
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