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Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Ang'ring itself and others.
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
Business
Others
Play
Must
Ring
Rings
Sorrow
Trade
Fool
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep', the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast...
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Ambition, the soldier's virtue.
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I scorn you, scurvy companion.
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... And death unloads thee.
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All hoods make not monks.
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Speak me fair in death.
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Things may serve long, but not serve ever.
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When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover.
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All furnished, all in arms All plum'd like estridges that with the wind Bated like eagles having lately bathed Glittering in golden coats like images As full of spirit as the month of May And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
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If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
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In the modesty of fearful duty, I read as much as from the rattling tongue of saucy and audacious eloquence.
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Two lovely berries moulded on one stem So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart.
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Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste.
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Until I know this sure uncertainty, I'll entertain the offered fallacy.
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Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .
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I would that I were low laid in my grave. I am not worth this coil that's made for me.
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Fie, fie upon her! There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her body.
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Hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig.
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Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your dispositions to be married It is an honor that I dream not of
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O, the difference of man and man! To thee a woman's services are due.
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