William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare – 23 April 1616) was an English poet, playwright, and actor, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist. He is often called England's national poet, and the "Bard of Avon". His extant works, including collaborations, consist of approximately 38 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and a few other verses, some of uncertain authorship. His plays have been translated into every major living language and are performed more often than...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionPlaywright
Date of Birth23 April 1564
Waste not thy time in windy argument but let the matter drop.
Keep time! How sour sweet music is when time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives. I wasted time and now doth time waste me.
How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.
I wasted time, and now doth Time waste me: For now hath Time made me his numb'ring clock; My thoughts are minutes
There should be hours for necessities, not for delights; times to repair our nature with comforting repose, and not for us to waste these times.
Therefore, to be possessed with double pomp,To guard a title that was rich before,To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,To throw a perfume on the violet,To smooth the ice, or add another hueUnto the rainbow, or with taper lightTo seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.
The expense of spirit in a waste of shameIs lust in action.
I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.
Don't waste your love on somebody, who doesn't value it.
We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.
What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted! Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just, and he but naked, though locked up in steel, whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
The purest treasure mortal times afford, is spotless reputation; that away, men are but gilded loam or painted clay.
The rude sea grew civil at her song,And certain stars shot madly from their spheresTo hear the sea-maid's music.
The robb'd that smiles steals something from the thief: He robs himself that spends a bootless grief