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The gray-eyed morn smiles on the frowning night, Checkering the eastern clouds with streaks of light.
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
Eyed
Smiles
Eastern
Gray
Dawn
Morn
Clouds
Frowning
Night
Light
Streaks
More quotes by William Shakespeare
An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye Give him a little earth for charity!
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Dreams, indeed, are ambition for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. And I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow's shadow.
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Who are the violets now That strew the lap of the new-come spring?
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Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent.
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I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.
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By-and-by is easily said.
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Things may serve long, but not serve ever.
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Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation
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For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel: Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all
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Beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time.
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I rather would entreat thy company To see the wonders of the world abroad, Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.
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O Judgment ! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason !
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Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief
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Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
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Reputation is an idle and most false imposition oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.
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How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!
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We will have rings and things and fine array
William Shakespeare
Come now, what masques, what dances shall we have To wear away this long age of three hours Between our after-supper and bedtime?
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Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.
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The will is infinite and the execution confin'd, the desire is boundless and the act a slave to limit.
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