Flower Quotes by William Shakespeare · Page 2

Thou knowest, winter tames man, woman, and beast.

— William Shakespeare

“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

— William Shakespeare

Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds.

— William Shakespeare

Summer's lease hath all too short a date.

— William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

— William Shakespeare

Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.

— William Shakespeare

Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.

— William Shakespeare

He makes a July's day short as December.

— William Shakespeare

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.

— William Shakespeare

The fragrance of the rose lingers on the hand that casts it

— William Shakespeare

“How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower?”

— William Shakespeare

Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.

— William Shakespeare

These flowers are like the pleasures of the world.

— William Shakespeare

Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose. For whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed.

— William Shakespeare

“O thou weed, Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet,”

— William Shakespeare

When clouds are seen wise men put on their cloaks; When great leaves fall then winter is at hand.

— William Shakespeare

“Return of love, more blest may be the view; As call it winter, which being full of care, Makes summer’s welcome thrice…

— William Shakespeare

“If you can look into the seeds of time And say which grain will grow and which will not, Speak, then, to…

— William Shakespeare

Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's…

— William Shakespeare

A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.

— William Shakespeare

On a day - alack the day! - Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the…

— William Shakespeare

Fair ladies, masked, are roses in their bud; Dismasked, the damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.

— William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds…

— William Shakespeare

Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud; Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lies in sweetest bud.…

— William Shakespeare

Dirty days hath September April June and November From January up to May The rain it raineth every day All the rest…

— William Shakespeare

He was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea; singing aloud; Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow-weeds, With bur-docks, hemlock,…

— William Shakespeare

Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any…

— William Shakespeare

All furnished, all in arms; All plum'd like estridges that with the wind Bated like eagles having lately bathed; Glittering in golden…

— William Shakespeare

Lay her i' the earth: And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering…

— William Shakespeare

“All things that we ordained festival, Turn from their office to black funeral; Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to…

— William Shakespeare

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good; a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly; a flower that dies when it begins to…

— William Shakespeare

Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it To lie that way thou goest, not whence thou com'st. Suppose the singing birds…

— William Shakespeare

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.

— William Shakespeare

As chaste as unsunned snow.

— William Shakespeare

“Here's flowers for you; hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold.”

— William Shakespeare

The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.

— William Shakespeare

Well-apparel'd April on the heel Of limping Winter treads.

— William Shakespeare

Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow

— William Shakespeare

Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.

— William Shakespeare

Now 'tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden.

— William Shakespeare