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The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity's revolt to wantonness.
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
Gravity
Excess
Lust
Youth
Blood
Wantonness
Revolt
Burns
More quotes by William Shakespeare
I have more care to stay than will to go.
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One good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages.
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No, I will be the pattern of all patience I will say nothing.
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There's nothing in this world can make me joy.
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Beware the ides of March.
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This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-Paradise.
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Better three hours too soon, than one hour to late.
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This act is an ancient tale new told And, in the last repeating, troublesome, Being urged at a time unseasonable.
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Though I am not naturally honest, I am sometimes so by chance.
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All surfeit is the father of much fast.
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Mine honor is my life, both grow in one. Take honor from me, and my life is done. Then, dear my liege, mine honor let me try In that I live, and for that I will die.
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The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.
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you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself pois'd with herself in either eye But in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd Your lady's love against some other maid That I will show you shining at this feast, And she shall scant show well that now seems best.
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So full of shapes is fancy That it alone is high fantastical.
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I had rather live with cheese and garlic in a windmill.
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And all my mother came into mine eyes And gave me up to tears.
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At once, good night- Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once.
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Who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down?
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
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Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court?
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