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What's the news? None, my lord, but that the world's grown honest, Then is doomsday near.
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
Near
Honesty
None
News
Honest
Lord
World
Doomsday
Grown
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Read o'er this And after, this, and then to breakfast with What appetite you have.
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The bitter clamor of two eager tongues.
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Know more than other. Work more than other. Expect less than other
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This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o-erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire.
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Crack'd in pieces by malignant Death.
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It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on't.
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Grace and remembrance be to you both.
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Why, all delights are vain, but that most vain Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain: As, painfully to pore upon a book, To seek the light of truth, which truth the while Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look.
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But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.
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I love him for his sake And yet I know him a notorious liar, Think him a great way fool, solely a coward Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him That they take place when virtue's steely bones Looks bleak i' th' cold wind withal, full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
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My prophecy is but half his journey yet, For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, Yon towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds, Must kiss their own feet.
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Poor Desdemona! I am glad thy father's dead. Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain.
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There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
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I have heard it said There is an art which in their piedness shares With great creating nature.
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Bid the dishonest man mend himself if he mend, he is no longer dishonest.
William Shakespeare
The fortune of us that are the moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the moon.
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When the mind's free, The Body's delicate.
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The coward dies a thousand deaths, the valiant, only once!
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