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Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?
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
Sensible
Thou
Sight
Vision
Feelings
Art
Fatal
More quotes by William Shakespeare
There is a history in all men's lives, Figuring the nature of the times deceased, The which observed, a man may prophesy, With a near aim, of the main chance of things As yet not come to life, which in their seeds And weak beginnings lie intreasured.
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He's loved of the distracted multitude, who like not in their judgement, but their eyes.
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Thoughts are but dreams till their effects are tried.
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The mightier man, the mightier is the thing That makes him honored or begets him hate For greatest scandal waits on greatest state.
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It is the witness still of excellency to put a strange face on his own perfection.
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There is a history in all men's lives.
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We will have rings and things and fine array
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For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, I'll gild it with the happiest terms I have.
William Shakespeare
Poor and content, is rich and rich enough But riches, fineless, is as poor as winter, To him that ever fears he shall be poor.
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Every man has business and desire, Such as it is.
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The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.
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Great floods have flown From simple sources.
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Of all knowledge the wise and good seek most to know themselves.
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How low am I, thou painted maypole?
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And what’s he then that says I play the villain?
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thou art the best o' the cut-throats
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Mechanic slaves With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall Uplift us to the view.
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If you love an addle egg as well as you love an idle head, you would eat chickens i' th' shell.
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How sometimes nature will betray its folly, Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime To harder bosoms!
William Shakespeare
Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!
William Shakespeare
