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Throw physic to the dogs I'll none of it.
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
None
Physic
Antidote
Dogs
Medical
Throw
Dog
More quotes by William Shakespeare
'Tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.
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Come not between the dragon and his wrath.
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thus with a kiss I die
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Then love-devouring Death do what he dare.
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To have seen much and to have nothing is to have rich eyes and poor hands.
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The whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
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See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
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I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good Friends
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For what is wedlock forced but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife? Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, And is a pattern of celestial peace.
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Courage mounteth with occasion.
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Highly fed and lowly taught.
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Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.
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A maiden hath no tongue--but thought.
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Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
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Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
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God bless thee and put meekness in thy breast, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty!
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Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
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Jesters do oft prove prophets.
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Music can minister to minds diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with its sweet oblivious antidote, cleanse the full bosom of all perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart.
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That, sir, which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack, when it begins to rain, And leave thee in a storm.
William Shakespeare
