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To be merry best becomes you for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour.
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
Question
Hours
Born
Best
Merriment
Merry
Hour
Becomes
More quotes by William Shakespeare
The apparel oft proclaims the man.
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O, reason not the need!
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O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!
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O sleep! O gentle sleep! Nature's soft nurse.
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Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.
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It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
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Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.
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For who so firm that cannot be seduced?
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He that hath the steerage of my course, Direct my sail.
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Give it an understanding, but no tongue.
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No sooner met but they looked no sooner looked but they loved no sooner loved but they sighed no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage.
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Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
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Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school.
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Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither. Ripeness is all.
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Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but ay, And that bare vowel ay shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. I am not I,if there be such an ay, Or those eyes shut,that make thee answer ay: If he be slain say ay,or if not,no: Brief sounds,determine of my weal or woe.
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Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
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Men are April when they woo, December when they wed.
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The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.
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The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger.
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The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.
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