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Direct not him whose way himself will choose 'Tis breath not lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.

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
Advice
Whose
Choose
Wilt
Lose
Breath
Loses
Breaths
Way
Thou
Lack
Direct

More quotes by William Shakespeare

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Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth
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I always thought it was both impious and unnatural that such immanity and bloody strife should reign among professors of one faith.
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For trust not him that hath once broken faith
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Tis ever common That men are merriest when they are from home.
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Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.
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Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up Thine own life's means!
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Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
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Rest you fair, good signior Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
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They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.
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Good counselors lack no clients.
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Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks, Shall win my love.
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I shall despair. There is no creature loves me And if I die no soul will pity me: And wherefore should they, since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself?
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Press not a falling man too far 'tis virtue: His faults lie open to the laws let them, Not you, correct him.
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For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
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What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood Is there not rain enough in the sweet heaves To wash it white as snow?
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Friendship is full of dregs.
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Give me my robe, put on my crown I have Immortal longings in me.
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Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm from an anointed King.
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If by chance I talk a little wild, forgive me I had it from my father.
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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.
William Shakespeare