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Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds Do sorely ruffle for many miles about There's scarce a bush.
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
Miles
Ruffle
Wind
Ruffles
Comes
Sorely
Night
Bleak
Many
Scarce
Winds
Wilderness
Bush
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Supposition all our lives shall be stuck full of eyes For treason is but trusted like the fox, Who, ne'er so tame, so cherished and locked up, Will have a wild trick of his ancestors.
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Will Fortune never come with both hands full, But write her fair words still in foulest terms?
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And by that destiny to perform an act Whereof what's past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge.
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He makes a July's day short as December.
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T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.
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What should we speak of When we are old as you? when we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December? how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse The freezing hours away?
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A rotten case abides no handling.
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Suffer love a good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.
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The Hebrew will turn Christian he grows kind.
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When the age is in, the wit is out
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I understand thy kisses, and thou mine, And that's a feeling disputation.
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Love denied blights the soul we owe to God.
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My father names me Autolycus, who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.
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O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart.-Helena
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All that glisters is not gold Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.
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Faith, stay here this night they will surely do us no harm you saw they speak us fair, give us gold methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch.
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What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time?
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With caution judge of probability. Things deemed unlikely, e'en impossible, experience oft hath proved to be true.
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Then is it sin to rush into the secret house of death. Ere death dare come to us?
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You undergo too strict a paradox, Striving to make an ugly deed look fair.
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