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Then with the losers let it sympathize, For nothing can seem foul to those that win.
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
Victory
Seem
Winning
Seems
Nothing
Sympathize
Losers
Foul
Loser
More quotes by William Shakespeare
But whate'er I am, nor I nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be pleased 'til he be eased With being nothing.
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O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! And yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hooping.
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I heard a bustling rumor like a fray, And the wind blows it from the Capitol.
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Weep I cannot But my heart bleeds.
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Love is begun by time and time qualifies the spark and fire of it.
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The thorny point Of bare distress hath ta'en from me the show Of smooth civility yet am I inland bred And know some nurture.
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There's small choice in rotten apples.
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My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.
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World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.
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O mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
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What's done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.
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One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
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We will have rings and things and fine array
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Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.
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Thou whoreson zed! Thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a jakes with him. *all cheer for Shakespearean insults*
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Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.
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It is silliness to live when to live is torment, and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.
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Foul fiend of France and hag of all despite, Encompassed with thy lustful paramours, Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age And twit with cowardice a man half dead?
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Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
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The breach of custom Is breach of all.
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