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This night I hold an old accustomed feast, Whereto I have invited many a guest, Such as I love and you among the store, One more, most welcome, makes my number more.
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
Among
Guest
Hold
Accustomed
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Guests
Makes
Invited
Night
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Many
Stores
Love
Welcome
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Feast
More quotes by William Shakespeare
O, Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villainy, not born where't grows, But worn a bait for ladies.
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If ever (as that ever may be near) you meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, then shall you know the wounds invisible that love's keen, arrows make.
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Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
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My only love sprung from my only hate.
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Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile.
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Angels and ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd, Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked, or charitable, Thou com'st in such a questionable shape, That I will speak to thee.
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Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home, And so am come abroad to see the world.
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Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
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If you would persuade, you must appeal to interest rather than intellect. We are advertis'd by our loving friends.
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O that men's ears should be To counsel deaf but not to flattery!
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The time is out of joint.
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Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed.
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What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?
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How low am I, thou painted maypole?
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But like of each thing that in season grows.
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We will meet and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously.
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Drink down all unkindness.
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Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts?
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I'll speak in a monstrous little voice.
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[Thine] face is not worth sunburning.
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