WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE Quotes

A ministering angel shall my sister be.

William Shakespeare

Praising what is lost Makes the remembrance dear.

William Shakespeare

The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widowed wombs after their lords decease.

William Shakespeare

The fashion wears out more apparel than the man.

William Shakespeare

A long-tongued, babbling gossip.

William Shakespeare

"Were't not affection chains thy tender days To the sweet glances of thy honored love, I rather would entreat thy company To see the wonders of the world abroad Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness."

William Shakespeare

Were't not affection chains thy tender days To the sweet glances of thy honored love, I rather would entreat thy company To see the wonders of the world abroad Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.

William Shakespeare

For they are yet ear-kissing arguments.

William Shakespeare

They say the tongues of dying men enforce attention, like deep harmony: Where words are scarce, they're seldom spent in vain

William Shakespeare

Let me be cruel, not unnatural; I will speak daggers to her, but use none. My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites: How in my words somever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent

William Shakespeare

Pity is the virture of the law, and none but tyrants use it cruelly.

William Shakespeare

Let me be cruel, not unnatural; I will speak daggers to her, but use none. My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites: How in my words somever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent!

William Shakespeare

Security is the chief enemy of mortals.

William Shakespeare

Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.

William Shakespeare

For there was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently

William Shakespeare

But mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised, And mine that I was proud on--mine so much That I myself was to myself not mine, Valuing of her--why she, O, she is fall'n Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again, And salt too little which may season give To her foul tainted flesh!

William Shakespeare

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