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Nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs, Losing both beauty and utility.
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
Rough
Losing
Beauty
Teems
Nothing
Thistles
Clovers
Docks
Utility
Hateful
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Their understanding Begins to swell and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shores That now lie foul and muddy.
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And in some perfumes there is more delight than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know that music hath a far more pleasing sound.
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Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure, And to that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour-a great patience.
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Though men can cover crimes with bold, stern looks, poor women's faces are their own faults' books.
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Fair, kind, and true is all my argument, Fair, kind, and true varying to other words And in this change is my invention spent, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
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The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.
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The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.
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Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may hear.
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Love sees with the heart and not with mind.
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She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared
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Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.
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The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.
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For what good turn? Messenger: For the best turn of the bed.
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Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry
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I have shot mine arrow o'er the house And hurt my brother.
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Things are often spoke and seldom meant.
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Men must learn now with pity to dispense For policy sits above conscience.
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Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
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Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.
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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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