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Have you not love enough to bear with me, when that rash humor which my mother gave me makes me forgetful.
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
Enough
Forbearance
Love
Bear
Anger
Bears
Gave
Humor
Makes
Forgetful
Mother
Rash
More quotes by William Shakespeare
The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.
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Yet but three come one more. Two of both kinds make up four. Ere she comes curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad. Thus to make poor females mad.
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Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.
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You know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard, And after scandal them.
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Speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.
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Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.
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I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?
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In struggling with misfortunes lies the true proof of virtue.
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But the strong base and building of my love is as the very centre of the earth, drawing all things to it.
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I do repent but heaven hath pleas'd it so To punish me with this, and this with me, That I must be their scourge and minister. I will bestow him, and will answer well The death I gave him. So again good night. I must be cruel only to be kind. Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.
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And do as adversaries do in law, strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.
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Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait, His day's hot task hath ended in the west: The owl, night's herald, shrieks-'tis very late The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest And coal-black clouds, that shadow heaven's light, Do summon us to part, and bid good night.
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There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.
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The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves, Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.
William Shakespeare
Foul whisperings are abroad
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Frailty, thy name is woman!
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Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.
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There's nothing in this world can make me joy.
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Ten masts make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. Thy life's a miracle.
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How many things by season seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection!
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