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Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves.
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
Good
Necks
Towards
Turn
Eyes
Survey
Turns
Surveys
Eye
Interior
Self
Interiors
Make
Selves
More quotes by William Shakespeare
In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.
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Macduff: What three things does drink especially provoke? Porter: Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine.
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Hamlet: Lady, shall I lie in your lap? Ophelia: No, my lord. Hamlet: DId you think I meant country matters? Ophelia: I think nothing, my lord. Hamlet: That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs. Ophelia: What is, my lord? Hamlet: Nothing.
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Now, infidel, I have you on the hip!
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The morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness.
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Now he'll outstare the lightning. To be furious Is to be frightened out of fear.
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I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
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I hold him but a fool that will endanger His body for a girl that loves him not.
William Shakespeare
Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog.
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Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
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Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears: Look, when I vow, I weep and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?
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I am disgraced, impeached, and baffled here, Pierced to the soul with slander's venomed spear.
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When workmen strive to do better than well, they do confound their skill in covetousness.
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The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.
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I see a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist.
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The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.
William Shakespeare
How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
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That in the captains but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.
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In persons grafted in a serious trust, Negligence is a crime.
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There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.
William Shakespeare