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Every true man's apparel fits your thief.
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
Fits
Thieves
Fit
True
Every
Men
Apparel
Thief
Theft
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Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.
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There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee.
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Let me not to the marriage of true minds
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Be bloody, bold, and resolute laugh to scorn the power of man.
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The proverb is something musty.
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And either victory, or else a grave.
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It is certain that either wise bearing or ignorant carriage is caught as men take diseases, one of another.
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Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.
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The icy precepts of respect.
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His jest will savour but of shallow wit, When thousands weep, more than did laugh at it.
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You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant But yet you draw not iron, for my heart Is true as steel: leave you your power to draw, And I shall have no power to follow you.
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My salad days, When I was green in judgment.
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He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.
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Time, that takes survey of all the world, Must have a stop.
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Two households, both alike in dignity In fair Verona, where we lay our scene From ancient grudge break to new mutiny Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life Whose misadventured piteous overthrows Do with their death bury their parents' strife.
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O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
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If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.
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O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours with Time's deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face. But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?
William Shakespeare
My heart is turned to stone I strike it, and it hurts my hand.
William Shakespeare
The sands are number'd that make up my life Here must I stay, and here my life must end.
William Shakespeare
