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Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but backrout quite the wits.
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
Make
Ribs
Lean
Wit
Fats
Eating
Bits
Quite
Dainty
Rich
Wits
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful
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Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
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What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
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O gentle son, Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper, sprinkle cool patience.
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Look to her, Moor, if thou has eyes to see. She has deceived her father, and may thee.
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If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!
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If I lose my honor, I lose myself: better I were not yours Than yours so branchless.
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'Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall.
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The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.
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And, if you love me, as I think you do, let's kiss and part, for we have much to do
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Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?
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A very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience.
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For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
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The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance.
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Travelers never did lie, though fools at home condemn them.
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Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
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He lives in fame that died in virtue's cause.
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I'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well
William Shakespeare
As love is full of unbefitting strains, All wanton as a child, skipping and vain, Form'd by the eye and therefore, like the eye, Full of strange shapes, of habits and of forms, Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll To every varied object in his glance
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Better be with the dead, Whom we to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy.
William Shakespeare
