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He must needs go that the devil drives.
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
Needs
Maxims
Drives
Devil
Fate
Must
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Weep I cannot But my heart bleeds.
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Your worm is your only emperor for diet we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots.
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It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
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If the masses can love without knowing why, they also hate without much foundation.
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Well, while I live I'll fear no other thing So sore as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.
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There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.
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Dirty days hath September April June and November From January up to May The rain it raineth every day All the rest have thirty-one Without a blessed gleam of sun And if any of them had two-and-thirty They'd be just as wet and twice as dirty. April hath put a spirit of youth in everything.
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O, my lord, You said that idle weeds are fast in growth: The prince my brother hath outgrown me far.
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Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me?
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All love's pleasure shall not match its woe.
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Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, And cry 'content' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face for all occasions
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We, ignorant of ourselves, Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers Deny us for our good so find we profit By losing of our prayers.
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Let still woman take An elder than herself: so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart, For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner to be lost and warn, Than women's are.
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For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.
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Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.
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There is nothing serious in Mortality
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Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining.
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Let the end try the man.
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Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.
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Let never day nor night unhallowed pass, but still remember what the Lord hath done.
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