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Time, whose millioned accidents creep in betwixt vows, and change decrees of kings, tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharpest intents, divert strong minds to the course of altering things.
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
Strong
Accidents
Decrees
Change
Sacred
Vows
Mind
Kings
Altering
Things
Minds
Creep
Time
Whose
Decree
Intents
Courses
Vow
Betwixt
Course
Blunt
Sharpest
Beauty
Creeps
Divert
More quotes by William Shakespeare
And by that destiny to perform an act Whereof what's past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge.
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Some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone.
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I will not choose what many men desire, Because I will not jump with common spirits And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.
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Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining.
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In jest, there is truth.
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Have you not love enough to bear with me, when that rash humor which my mother gave me makes me forgetful.
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What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living? Beatrice: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?
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Praise us as we are tasted, allow us as we prove.
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Life... is a paradise to what we know of death.
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There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered.
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How low am I, thou painted maypole?
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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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Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.
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They are but beggars that can count their worth.
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Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks, but I thank you and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny.
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Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.
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O heresy in fair, fit for these days, A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which.
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I was a coward on instinct.
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Foul whisperings are abroad
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