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All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, An 'tis no better reckoned but of these Who worship dirty gods.
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
Dirt
Rather
Silver
Better
Dirty
Gods
Worship
Gold
Wealth
Turn
Reckoned
More quotes by William Shakespeare
For death remembered should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error.
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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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My charity is outrage, life my shame And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!
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The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew, for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars.
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Greatness, once fallen out with fortune, must fall out with men too.
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You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings and soar with them above a common bound.
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The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.
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I can no longer live by thinking.
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Fishes live in the sea, as men do a-land the great ones eat up the little ones.
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O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable
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Patience is sottish, and impatience does become a dog that's mad.
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Besides, our nearness to the King in love Is near the hate of those love not the King.
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This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedler and retails his wares.
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But when the fox hath once got in his nose, He'll soon find means to make the body follow.
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Wise men never sit and wail their loss, but cheerily seek how to redress their harms.
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I love thee, I love thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.
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Bell, book and candle shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on.
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On a day - alack the day! - Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air
William Shakespeare
That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.
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There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men all perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.
William Shakespeare
