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Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief
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
Grief
Monument
Green
Smiling
Thought
Cheeks
Like
Melancholy
Sat
Feed
Yellow
Concealment
Patience
Cheek
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Time travels at different speeds for different people. I can tell you who time strolls for, who it trots for, who it gallops for, and who it stops cold for.
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Love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams Driving back shadows over low'ring hills. Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.
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Come, Let's have one other gaudy night. Call to me All my sad captains. Fill our bowls once more. Let's mock the midnight bell.
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The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Shall come again, transform'd to orient pearl, Advantaging their loan with interest Of ten times double gain of happiness.
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Appetite, a universal wolf.
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Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir.
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Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish her election, Sh'ath sealed thee for herself.
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God defend the right.
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Though I am not naturally honest, I am sometimes so by chance.
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Death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all, all shall die.
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Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.
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The most peerless piece of earth, I think, that e' er the sun shone bright on.
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The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness, And in the taste confounds the appetite: Therefore love moderately— long love doth so.
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Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy.
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Faults that are rich are fair.
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Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn.
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Every man has his fault, and honesty is his.
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Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
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Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator.
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No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.
William Shakespeare