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But now I am cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in To saucy doubts and fears.
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
Confined
Bound
Fears
Bounds
Doubt
Saucy
Doubts
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Be not afraid of greatness.
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The thing of courage As rous'd with rage doth sympathise, And, with an accent tun'd in self-same key, Retorts to chiding fortune.
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All the contagion of the south light on you, You shames of Rome! you herd of--boils and plagues Plaster you o'er that you may be abhorr'd Further than seen, and one infect another Against the wind a mile!
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Hide not thy poison with such sugar'd words
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Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
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My father compounded with my mother under the Dragon's tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major, so that it follows, I am roughand lecherous. Tut, I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing.
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Discomfort guides my tongue And bids me speak of nothing but despair.
William Shakespeare
I am your wife if you will marry me. If not, I'll die your maid. To be your fellow You may deny me, but I'll be your servant Whether you will or no.
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I think thy horse will sooner con an oration than thou learn a prayer without book.
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I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.
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Who are the violets now That strew the lap of the new-come spring?
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Time is a very bankrupt and owes more than he's worth to season. Nay, he's a thief too: have you not heard men say, That Time comes stealing on by night and day?
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A thousand moral paintings I can show That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune's More pregnantly than words.
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He's a soldier and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing.
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Pardon's the word to all.
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I have shot mine arrow o'er the house And hurt my brother.
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Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?
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Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come.
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Ay, but to die and go we know not where To lie in cold obstrution and to rot This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.
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In nature's infinite book of secrecy A little I can read.
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