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. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.
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
Impossible
Harvest
True
Root
Take
Season
Make
Weather
Fairs
Seasons
Needful
Fair
Fairness
Roots
Frame
More quotes by William Shakespeare
But miserable most, to love unloved? This you should pity rather than despise
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Be checked for silence, But never taxed for speech.
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The wound of peace is surety, Surety secure but modest doubt is called The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To th' bottom of the worst.
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The world is grown so bad, That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch.
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Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
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When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.
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...and then, in dreaming, / The clouds methought would open and show riches / Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked / I cried to dream again.
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Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek.
William Shakespeare
Out, you tallow-face! You baggage!
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As I hope For quiet days, fair issue, and long life, With such love as 'tis now, the murkiest den, The most opportune place, the strong'st suggestion Our worser genius can, shall never melt Mine honour into lust, to take away The edge of that day's celebration, When I shall think or Phoebus' steeds are founder'd Or Night kept chain'd below.
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Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.
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The king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temp'rance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them, but abound In the division of each several crime, Acting in many ways.
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My love's more richer than my tongue.
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Give me to drink mandragora.
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What light through yonder window breaks?
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And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?
William Shakespeare
The patient must minister to himself
William Shakespeare
The seasons change their manners, as the year Had found some months asleep and leapt them over.
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Do not banish reason for inequality but let your reason serve to make the truth appear where it seems hid, and hide the false seems true.
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Despair and die. The ghosts
William Shakespeare
