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I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.
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
Hair
Must
Tickle
Scratch
Scratches
Tender
Ass
Horse
More quotes by William Shakespeare
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
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Past all shame, so past all truth.
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Love's stories written in love's richest books. To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes.
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April ... hath put a spirit of youth in everything.
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It is a heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in it.
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Talkers are no good doers.
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Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.
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A smile cures the wounding of a frown.
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I'll forbear And am fallen out with my more headier will To take the indisposed and sickly fit For the sound man.
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Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty.
William Shakespeare
Some men never seem to grow old. Always active in thought, always ready to adopt new ideas, they are never chargeable with foggyism. Satisfied, yet ever dissatisfied, settled, yet ever unsettled, they always enjoy the best of what is, are the first to find the best of what will be.
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Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending.
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Remuneration! O! That's the Latin word for three farthings
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There live not three good men unhanged in England and one of them is fat and grows old.
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Under loves heavy burden do I sink. --Romeo
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What: is the jay more precious than the lark because his feathers are more beautiful?
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But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.
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You are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger as the flint bears fire Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spank, And straight is cold again.
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True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.
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In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.
William Shakespeare
