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All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, with sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.
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
Fancy
Dear
Sick
Sighs
Cost
Sigh
Blood
Cheer
Love
Pale
Costs
Fresh
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves.
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But now I am cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in To saucy doubts and fears.
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Have patience, and endure
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I may neither choose who I would, nor refuse who I dislike so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father.
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I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange with-out heresy.
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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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Thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.
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How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank Here we will sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears soft stillness, and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony
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The morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness.
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The plants look up to heaven, from whence they have their nourishment.
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Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied.
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And be these juggling friends no more believ'd, That palter with us in a double sense That keep the word of promise to our ear And break it to our hope.
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See, what a ready tongue suspicion hath! He that but fears the thing he would not know, Hath, by instinct, knowledge from others' eyes, That what he feared is chanced.
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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.
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A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loath'd than an effeminate man.
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I cannot do it without comp[u]ters.
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The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.
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Age, I do abhor thee, youth, I do adore thee.
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Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
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Men in rage strike those that wish them best.
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