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Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure, And to that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour-a great patience.
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
Done
Constant
Great
Husband
Beyond
Joy
Bring
Honour
Pleasure
Excitement
Woman
Add
Dream
Patience
More quotes by William Shakespeare
For to define true madness, What is't but to be nothing else but mad?
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Thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.
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Take her away for she hath lived too long, To fill the world with vicious qualities.
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If is a custom, More honor'd in the breach than the observance.
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Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.
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My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
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I am that merry wanderer of the night.
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Now I will believe that there are unicorns.
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As for my wife, I would you had her spirit in such another The third o' th' world is yours, which with a snaffle You may pace easy, but not such a wife.
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By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death will seize the doctor too.
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A great cause of the night is lack of the sun.
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If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.
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Sweets to the sweet.
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Antonio: Will you stay no longer? nor will you not that I go with you? Sebastian: By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over me the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your love to lay any of them on you.
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No profit grows where no pleasure is taken.
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Comets importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky And with them scourge the bad revolting stars.
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The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.
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We see which way the stream of time doth run.
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I bear a charmed life.
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He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.
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