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And the more pity that great folk should have count'nance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even-Christen.
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
World
Folk
Hang
Count
Suicide
Pity
Folks
Great
Even
Drown
More quotes by William Shakespeare
What the great ones do, the less will prattle of
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Men's vows are women's traitors
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How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
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Through tattered clothes, small vices do appear. Robes and furred gowns hide all.
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The weariest and most loathed worldly life, that age, ache, penury and imprisonment can lay on nature is a paradise, to what we fear of death.
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This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.
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You are a tedious fool.
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We cannot fight for love, as men may do we shou'd be woo'd, and were not made to woo
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There is flattery in friendship.
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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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Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipped of justice.
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Like the lily That once was mistress of the field and flourished, I'll hang my head and perish.
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If we are true to ourselves, we can not be false to anyone.
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Be not afeard the isle is full of noises.
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So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!
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Care is no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied.
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Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep?
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The quality of mercy is not strained
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Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Be absent hence!
William Shakespeare
