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Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?
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
Glory
Death
Love
Sting
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity In least speak most, to my capacity.
William Shakespeare
I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
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For who so firm that cannot be seduced?
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All love's pleasure shall not match its woe.
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There is flattery in friendship.
William Shakespeare
After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.
William Shakespeare
The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream And greedily devour the treacherous bait.
William Shakespeare
Just death, kind umpire of men's miseries.
William Shakespeare
Would I were dead, if God's good will were so, For what is in this world but grief and woe?
William Shakespeare
A plague on both your houses.
William Shakespeare
Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men?
William Shakespeare
Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
William Shakespeare
Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day.
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To saucy doubts and fears.
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Pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
William Shakespeare
Few things loves better Than to abhor himself.
William Shakespeare
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry.
William Shakespeare
Thus we play the fool with the time and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us.
William Shakespeare
Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
William Shakespeare
At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth But like of each thing that in season grows.
William Shakespeare
