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The loyalty, well held to fools, does make Our faith mere folly.
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
Faith
Doe
Wells
Fools
Well
Folly
Make
Loyalty
Held
Mere
Fool
More quotes by William Shakespeare
O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a vixen when she went to school And though she be but little, she is fierce.
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Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy.
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Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.
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I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself.
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Corruption wins not more than honesty.
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Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death.
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Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma or a hideous dream.
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Good wine is a good familiar creature if it be well used.
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If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.
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Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sell eternity to get a toy? For one grape who will the vine destroy?
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And yet,to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.
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Wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.
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It is a heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in it.
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One woman is fair, yet I am well another is wise, yet I am well another virtuous, yet I am well but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.
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Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.
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What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
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Retire me to my Milan, where Every third thought shall be my grave.
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Who has a book of all that monarchs do, He's more secure to keep it shut than shown For vice repeated is like the wand'ring wind, Blows dust in others' eye, to spread itself And yet the end of all is bought thus dear, The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear To stop the air would hurt them.
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Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.
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Where every something, being blent together turns to a wild of nothing.
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