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Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court?
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
Brother
Painted
Free
Mates
Made
Customs
Life
Hath
Pomp
Brothers
Envious
Woods
Custom
Court
Exile
Sweet
Peril
More quotes by William Shakespeare
A smile cures the wounding of a frown.
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The poorest service is repaid with thanks.
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I have heard of your paintings too, well enough God has given you one face, and you make yourselves another.
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We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh few are angels.
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Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
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Good fortune then! To make me blest or cursed'st among men.
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O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
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Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age have left me naked to mine enemies.
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Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.
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Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.
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Twas never merry world Since lowly feigning was called compliment.
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What showers arise, blown with the windy tempest of my heart
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Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian.
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The gates of monarchs Are arched so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun.
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You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts, make yourselves praised.
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The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.
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Thus we play the fool with the time and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us.
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So. Lie there, my art.
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O' What may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!
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And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire, The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.
William Shakespeare
