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O heaven! that one might read the book of fate, and see the revolution of the times.
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
Future
Read
Times
Might
Book
Fate
Revolution
Heaven
More quotes by William Shakespeare
If she be not honest, chaste, and true, there's no man happy.
William Shakespeare
I love him for his sake And yet I know him a notorious liar, Think him a great way fool, solely a coward Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him That they take place when virtue's steely bones Looks bleak i' th' cold wind withal, full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
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Sweetest nut hath sourest rind.
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Two lovely berries moulded on one stem So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart.
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Trust not my reading, nor my observations, Which with experimental seal do warrant The tenor of my book.
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O teach me how I should forget to think (1.1.224)
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Foul fiend of France and hag of all despite, Encompassed with thy lustful paramours, Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age And twit with cowardice a man half dead?
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She says I am not fair, that I lack manners She calls me proud, and that she could not love me, Were man as rare as Phoenix.
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If thou art rich, thou art poor for, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, and death unloads thee.
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There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men all perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.
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This day's black fate on more days doth depend This but begins the woe, others must end.
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I have full cause of weeping, but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws or ere I'll weep.
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I can hardly forbear hurling things at him.
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Too much to know is to know naught but fame.
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To bed, to bed sleep kill those pretty eyes, And give as soft attachment to thy senses, As infants empty of all thought.
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Some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltness of time.
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Stars hide your fires let not light see my black and deep desires: The eyes wink at the hand yet let that be which the eye fears, when it is done, to see
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A sympathy in choice.
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The appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony.
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O wretched state! o bosom black as death!
William Shakespeare