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Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth. O these deliberate fools!
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
Fools
Hath
Thus
Sing
Moth
Fool
Moths
Insects
Deliberate
Candle
More quotes by William Shakespeare
I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes when they are in great danger I recover them.
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Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
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Men of few words are the best men. (3.2.41)
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At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth But like of each thing that in season grows.
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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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One woman is fair, yet I am well another is wise, yet I am well another virtuous, yet I am well but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.
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Methought I was enamour'd of an ass.
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If you shall marry, You give away this hand, and this is mine You give away heaven's vows, and those are mine You give away myself, which is known mine For I by vow am so embodied yours That she which marries you must marry me-- Either both or none.
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Pleasure and revenge Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice Of any true decision.
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Grace and remembrance be to you both.
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The weary sun hath made a golden set And by the bright tract of his fiery car Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow.
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He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.
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Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
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A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us His dew falls everywhere.
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You have her father's love, Demetrius Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him!
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Foul whisp'rings are abroad.
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Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I every man to his business.
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The color of the king doth come and go, Between his purpose and his conscience, Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set: His passion is so ripe, it needs must break.
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The strawberry grows underneath the nettle And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best Neighbour'd by fruit of baser quality.
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Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear.
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