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Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud but, God He knows, thy share thereof is small.
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
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Small
Beauty
Women
Make
Thereof
Doth
Proud
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Live loath'd and long, Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites, Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears, You fools of fortune, trencher friends, time flies Cap and knee slaves, vapors, and minute jacks.
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Yet this my comfort: when your words are done, My woes end likewise with the evening sun.
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Eternity was in our lips and eyes, Bliss in our brows' bent none our parts so poor But was a race of heaven.
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Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date . . .
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Tis much when sceptres are in children's hands, But more when envy breeds unkind division: There comes the ruin, there begins confusion.
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Men so noble, However faulty, yet should find respect For what they have been: 'tis a cruelty To load a falling man.
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Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
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This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change, For 'tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.
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Greatest scandal waits on greatest state.
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Plain and not honest is too harsh a style.
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Lords, knights and gentlemen, what I should say My tears gainsay for every word I speak, Ye see I drink the water of my eye.
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I had rather be a kitten and cry mew Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers.
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Were it good To set the exact wealth of all our states All at one cast? to set so rich a main On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour? It were not good.
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Love is . . . a madness most discreet
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He kills her in her own humor.
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Thou hast the most unsavoury similes.
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She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.
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Who has a book of all that monarchs do, He's more secure to keep it shut than shown For vice repeated is like the wand'ring wind, Blows dust in others' eye, to spread itself And yet the end of all is bought thus dear, The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear To stop the air would hurt them.
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There's daggers in men's smiles.
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This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, this Senior Junior, giant dwarf...Cupid.
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