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The wind-shak'd surge, with high and monstrous main, Seems to cast water on the burning Bear, And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole.
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
Universe
Burning
Surge
Science
Main
Quench
Seems
Bear
Guards
Ever
Bears
Pole
Mystery
Monstrous
Wind
Cast
High
Casts
Water
Fixed
More quotes by William Shakespeare
It is the cowish terror of his spirit that dares not undertake he'll not feel wrongs which tie him to an answer.
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The force of his own merit makes his way-a gift that heaven gives for him.
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Dreams are the children of idled minds.
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Truly the souls of men are full of dread: Ye cannot reason almost with a man That looks not heavily and full of fear.
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But shall we wear these glories for a day? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?
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You know who you are, but know not who you could be.
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Lay her i' the earth: And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be, When thou liest howling. HAMLET. What, the fair Ophelia! QUEEN GERTRUDE. Sweets to the sweet: farewell!
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One sin, I know, another doth provoke. Murder's as near to lust as flame to smoke.
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For they are yet ear-kissing arguments.
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Princes have but their titles for their glories, An outward honor for an inward toil And, for unfelt imaginations, They often feel a world of restless cares.
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These times of woe afford no time to woo.
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The sands are number'd that make up my life Here must I stay, and here my life must end.
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O heaven! that one might read the book of fate, and see the revolution of the times.
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Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian.
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Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Be absent hence!
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Happy thou art not for what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get and what thou hast, forgettest.
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My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
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What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living? Beatrice: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?
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A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it.
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Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
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