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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.
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
Creatures
Else
Maggots
Worm
Emperor
Worms
Diet
Diets
Fats
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Anger is like A full hot horse, who being allowed his way, Self-mettle tires him.
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Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God, My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.
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To go to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes
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Hate pollutes the mind.
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The wounds invisible that Love's keen arrows make.
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Give me my sin again.
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Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.
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Have patience, and endure
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Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, but thankful even for hate that is meant love.
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Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion
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And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy deathbed. He never will come again.
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Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.
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Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel? Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough.
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There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
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This is the very ecstasy of love.
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She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.
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How poor are they that have have not patients.
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Gentle and low, an excellent thing in woman.
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Here I and sorrows sit Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.
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Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.
William Shakespeare
