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These cardinals trifle with me I abhor This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.
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
Trifles
Rome
Tricks
Dilatory
Abhor
Trifle
Cardinals
Sloth
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
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For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy
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Presume not that I am the thing I was.
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You will never age for me, nor fade, nor die.
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An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.
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Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which.
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Slander, whose whisper over the world's diameter, as level as the cannon to its blank, transports its poisoned shot.
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I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.
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I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?
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For what I will, I will, and there an end.
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This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o-erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire.
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Base is the slave that pays.
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Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward, But then woos best when most his choice is froward.
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Falsehood falsehood cures
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The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.
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Stones have been known to move and trees to speak.
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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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For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
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I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.
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