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Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

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
Woe
Mortal
Mortals
Though
Poor
Death
Ends

More quotes by William Shakespeare

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I rather would entreat thy company To see the wonders of the world abroad, Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.
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This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change, For 'tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.
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Her virtues, graced with external gifts, Do breed love's settled passions in my heart And like as rigour of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So am I driven by breath of her renown Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive Where I may have fruition of her love.
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Oh God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea.
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To be direct and honest is not safe.
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It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion and all made of wishes, All adoration, duty, and observance, All humbleness, all patience and impatience, All purity, all trial, all observance
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This is the short and the long of it.
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It is a heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in it.
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Virtue is chok'd with foul ambition
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The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows. They are polluted off'rings, more abhorred! Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.
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I am as vigilant as a cat to steal cream.
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Tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age, Conferring them on younger strengths, while we Unburdened crawl toward death.
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Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament: They are but beggars that can count their worth But my true love is grown to such excess, I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth.
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No profit grows where no pleasure is taken.
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A sympathy in choice.
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Hold, or cut bowstrings.
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Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
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In love the heavens themselves do guide the state Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate.
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Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
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All the world's a stage ... and you better have a zoning variance or it's coming down.
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