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Et tu Brute! (You too, Brutus!)
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
Brutus
Treachery
Brute
Brutes
More quotes by William Shakespeare
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
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For now they kill me with a living death.
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Fare thee well, king: sith thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.
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I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
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I will be treble-sinewed, hearted, breathed, And fight maliciously for when mine hours Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives Of me for jests but now I'll set my teeth And send to darkness all that stop me.
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Fair ladies, masked, are roses in their bud Dismasked, the damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.
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I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap
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Contention, like a horse, Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose, And bears down all before him.
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I have more care to stay than will to go.
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There is a river in Macedon, and there is moreover a river in Monmouth. It is called Wye at Monmouth, but it is out of my prains what is the name of the other river but 'tis all one, 'tis alike as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in both.
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Macbeth to Witches: What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth, And yet are on 't?
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Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you
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The caterpillars of the commonwealth, Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.
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Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's Day, All in the morn betime, And I a maid at your window, To be your valentine.
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There is a world elsewhere.
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'Tis pride that pulls the country down.
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Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.
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He's loved of the distracted multitude, who like not in their judgement, but their eyes.
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Anger is like A full hot horse, who being allowed his way, Self-mettle tires him.
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Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament: They are but beggars that can count their worth But my true love is grown to such excess, I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth.
William Shakespeare