Quote

Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning One pain is less'ned by another's anguish Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning One desperate grief cures with another's languish.

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
Turns
Anguish
Less
Cures
Pain
Desperate
Another
Turning
Men
Burning
Languish
Grief
Giddy
Turn
Burns
Fire
Backward

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The seasons change their manners, as the year Had found some months asleep and leapt them over.
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What we determine we often break. Purpose is but the slave to memory.
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Thou art most rich, being poor Most choice, forsaken and most lov'd, despis'd! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon.
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Lions make leopards tame.
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in black ink my love may still shine bright.
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I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.(IAGO,ActI,SceneI)
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It is great To do that thing that ends all other deeds, Which shackles accidents and bolts up change.
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Thou hast nor youth nor age But as it were an after dinner sleep Dreaming of both.
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No visor does become black villainy so well as soft and tender flattery.
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Just death, kind umpire of men's miseries.
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I may neither choose who I would, nor refuse who I dislike so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father.
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Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste.
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Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
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Look on beauty, and you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight which therein works a miracle in Nature, making them lightest that wear most of it: so are those crisped snaky golden locks which make such wanton gambols with the wind upon supposed fairness, often known to be the dowry of a second head, the skull that bred them in the sepulchre.
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Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
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Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments: love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds.
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