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Weep I cannot But my heart bleeds.
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
Bleeds
Weep
Grief
Cannot
Heart
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Value dwells not in particular will It holds his estimate and dignity As well wherein 'tis precious of itself As in the prizer.
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Exceeds man's might: that dwells with the gods above.
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I can give the loser leave to chide.
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Love reasons without reason.
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Was ever woman in this humour wooed? Was ever woman in this humour won?
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Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness.
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Nature, as it grows again toward earth, is fashioned for the journey, dull and heavy.
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There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
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Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.
William Shakespeare
This night I hold an old accustomed feast, Whereto I have invited many a guest, Such as I love and you among the store, One more, most welcome, makes my number more.
William Shakespeare
The eagle suffers little birds to sing.
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Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both!
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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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Adieu! I have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave.
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Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.
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By being seldom seen, I could not stir But like a comet I was wondered at.
William Shakespeare
Because I cannot flatter and look fair, Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive, and cog, Duck with French nods and apish courtesy, I must be held a rancorous enemy.
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Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft.
William Shakespeare
Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.
William Shakespeare
You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!
William Shakespeare
