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O thou that dost inhabit in my breast, leave not the mansion so long tenantless lest, growing ruinous, the building fall and leave no memory of what it was!
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
Growing
Breast
Fall
Breasts
Long
Separation
Ruinous
Thou
Mansion
Memory
Dost
Building
Mansions
Leave
Inhabit
Memories
Lest
More quotes by William Shakespeare
So many hours must I take my rest So many hours must I contemplate.
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He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter.
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Now my charms are all o'erthrown.
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Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
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Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day.
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I had rather be a toad, and live upon the vapor of a dungeon than keep a corner in the thing I love for others uses.
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All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, An 'tis no better reckoned but of these Who worship dirty gods.
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Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues.
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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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The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.
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What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.
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I’ll look to like, if looking liking move But no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
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A harmless necessary cat.
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There's beggary in love that can be reckoned
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Fishes live in the sea, as men do a-land the great ones eat up the little ones.
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Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
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The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.
William Shakespeare
There is a tide in the affairs of men
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Mercutio: If love be rough with you, be rough with love.
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Give me a bowl of wine, In this I bury all unkindness.
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