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May never glorious sun reflex his beams Upon the country where you make abode! But darkness and the gloomy shade of death Environ you till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves.
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
Never
Sun
Mischief
Darkness
Necks
Break
Shade
Reflex
Upon
Hang
Beams
Death
Glorious
Reflexes
May
Till
Abode
Country
Drive
Gloomy
Make
Despair
Beam
More quotes by William Shakespeare
What ugly sights of death within mine eyes!
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If he be so resolved, I can o'ersway him for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betrayed with trees And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers
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Tis in my memory lock'd, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.
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A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting The perfume and suppliance of a minute No more.
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I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me
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Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.
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We few. We happy few. We band of brothers, for he today That sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.
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In a false quarrel there is no true valor.
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Against love's fire fear`s frost hath dissolution
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Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.
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That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave, Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.
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If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?
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The head is not more native to the heart.
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I 'gin to be aweary of the sun, And wish th' estate o' th' world were now undone.
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There is plenty of time to sleep in the grave
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Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.
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Do not plunge thyself too far in anger.
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Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog.
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How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.
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This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
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