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Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
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
Welcome
Winter
Summer
Full
Wish
Makes
Care
Thrice
Rare
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears.
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There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
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Would the cook were o' my mind!
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What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.
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I'll have no husband, if you be not he.
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Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
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What is light, if Sylvia be not seen? What is joy if Sylvia be not by?
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O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.
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Against love's fire fear`s frost hath dissolution
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Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, yet love breaks through and picks them all at last.
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When workmen strive to do better than well, they do confound their skill in covetousness.
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Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all!
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Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears Moist it again, and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity.
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Pardon's the word to all.
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What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery?
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Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light
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Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty.
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I can see he's not in your good books,' said the messenger. 'No, and if he were I would burn my library.
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To persevere In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness: 'tis unmanly grief.
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When holy and devout religious men are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence so sweet is zealous contemplation.
William Shakespeare
