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Women are angels, wooing: Things won are done joy's soul lies in the doing: That she beloved knows naught, that knows not this-- 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
Thing
Beloved
Things
Angel
Men
Lies
Joy
Wooing
Lying
Naught
Women
Courtship
Soul
Angels
Done
Prize
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Be stirring as the time be fire with fire. Threaten the threat'ner, and outface the brow Of bragging horror. So shall inferior eyes, That borrow their behaviors from the great, Grow great by your example and put on The dauntless spirit of resolution.
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He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.
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Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!
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I am sure care's an enemy to life.
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The best quarrels, in the heat, are cursed by those that feel their sharpness.
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O, where is loyalty? If it be banished from the frosty head, Where shall it find a harbor in the earth?
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The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew, for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars.
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In a false quarrel there is no true valor.
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We are not ourselves When nature, being oppressed, commands the mind To suffer with the body.
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What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.
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In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.
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Were it good To set the exact wealth of all our states All at one cast? to set so rich a main On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour? It were not good.
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This above all to thine own self be true.
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In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.
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Men should be what they seem Or those that be not, would they might seem none!.
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Muster your wits stand in your own defence.
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How many things by season seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection!
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[S]ince brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.
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Hereditary sloth instructs me.
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Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.
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