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For now they kill me with a living death.
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
Kill
Living
Death
More quotes by William Shakespeare
When I waked, I cried to dream again
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Gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, I gain'd my freedom.
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Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.
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Against ill chances men are ever merry, But heaviness foreruns the good event.
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And where two raging fires meet together, they do consume the thing that feeds their fury.
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And by that destiny to perform an act Whereof what's past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge.
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In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. -Sonnet 73
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Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars That make ambition virtue! O, farewell! Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, th' ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
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I wonder men dare trust themselves with men.
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The mind of guilt is full of scorpions.
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God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.
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This is the third time I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away go. They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death.
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The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us.
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When I was at home I was in a better place
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Poor and content, is rich and rich enough But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter, To him that ever fears he shall be poor.
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What can be happier than for a man, conscious of virtuous acts, and content with liberty, to despise all human affairs?
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Listen to many, speak to a few.
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One whom the music of his own vain tongue doth ravish like enchanting harmony.
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The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause.
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