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Men prize the thing ungained more than it is.
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
Prize
Appreciation
Thing
Men
More quotes by William Shakespeare
I cannot, nor I will not hold me still My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.
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Thou call'st me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.
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true apothecary thy drugs art quick
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Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands. Curtsied when you have and kissed The wild waves whist, Foot is featly here and there And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. Ariel's song, scene II, Act I
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They have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor
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Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.
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Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth.
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Twas never merry world Since lowly feigning was called compliment.
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I have a kind soul that would give you thanks. And knows not how to do it but with tears.
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The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows. They are polluted off'rings, more abhorred! Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.
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Ay, is it not a language I speak?
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Methought I was enamour'd of an ass.
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To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little more than a little is by much too much.
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Pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
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In sooth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me, you say it wearies you But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.
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Fie, fie, how frantically I square my talk!
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You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame
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There's nothing in this world can make me joy.
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Before the curing of a strong disease, Even in the instant of repair and health, The fit is strongest. Evils that take leave, On their departure most of all show evil.
William Shakespeare
I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, Perplexed in the extreme. . .
William Shakespeare
