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Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more.
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
Thou
Rest
Sleep
Fear
Death
Best
Grossly
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will!
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Make passionate my sense of hearing.
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Truth hath a quiet breast.
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Ten masts make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. Thy life's a miracle.
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You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
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This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
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It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion and all made of wishes, All adoration, duty, and observance, All humbleness, all patience and impatience, All purity, all trial, all observance
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Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light
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Love is too young to know what conscience is.
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It is thyself, mine own self's better part Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.
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Pride went before, ambition follows him.
William Shakespeare
What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.
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There is a world elsewhere.
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Tush! Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate Talkers are no good doers: be assured We come to use our hands and not our tongues.
William Shakespeare
The presence of a king engenders love Amongst his subjects, and his royal friends.
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The eagle suffers little birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby, Knowing that with the shadow of his wings He can at pleasure stint their melody: Even so mayest thou the giddy men of Rome.
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Why, this hath not a finger's dignity.
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O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!
William Shakespeare
Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge.
William Shakespeare
What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.
William Shakespeare
