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But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
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
Fairs
False
Fair
Thou
Blessed
Mayst
Blot
Fears
Appreciation
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?
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You told a lie, an odious damned lie Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.
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Our praises are our wages.
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I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop.
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What's the newest grief? Each minute tunes a new one.
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He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the grinding.
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Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth.
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Friendship is full of dregs.
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Hot blood begets hot thoughts, And hot thoughts beget Hot deeds, And hot deeds is love.
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O call not me to justify the wrong, That thy unkindness lays upon my heart, Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue, Use power with power, and slay me not by art.
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For I am fresh of spirit, and resolved To meet all perils very constantly.
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Live how we can, yet die we must.
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A blind man can't forget the eyesight he lost, show me any beautiful girl. How can her beauty not remind me of the one whose beauty surpasses hers?
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The golden age is before us, not behind us.
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He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.
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Mine eyes smell onions: I shall weep anon.
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'Tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems.
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A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain But that's all one, our play is done, And we'll strive to please you every day.
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She speaks poniards, and every word stabs.
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Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie, And young affection gapes to be his heir That fair for which love groan'd for and would die, With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.
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