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Love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition: Win straying souls with modesty again, Cast none away.
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
None
Clergymen
Winning
Meekness
Lord
Modesty
Away
Ministers
Become
Cast
Soul
Casts
Better
Souls
Love
Ambition
Straying
More quotes by William Shakespeare
My charity is outrage, life my shame And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!
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Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.
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When Fortune means to men most good, She looks upon them with a threatening eye.
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For he was likely, had he been put on, to have proved most royally.
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He's a soldier and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing.
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Desire of having is the sin of covetousness.
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O King, believe not this hard-hearted man!
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And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And asleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me must be heard of, say, I taught thee.
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Let me say amen betimes lest the devil cross my prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew.
William Shakespeare
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun, and with him rise weeping.
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Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste.
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Heaven would that she these gifts should have, and I to live and die her slave.
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What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and god-like reason to fust in us unused.
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I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.
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Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.
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Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying!
William Shakespeare
He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat.
William Shakespeare
Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repair Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen Neither in inward worth nor outward fair Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
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Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up. Be that thou know'st thou art and then thou art as great as that thou fear'st.
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When we mean to build, We first survey the plot, then draw the model And when we see the figure of the house, Then must we rate the cost of the erection.
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