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
Few love to hear the sins they love to act.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
In delay there lies no plenty.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.
Good company, good wine, good welcome, can make good people.
One half of me is yours, the other half is yours, Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours.
But till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, and excellent musician and her hair shall be of what colour it shall please God.
Is it not strange that sheep's guts could hail souls out of men's bodies?
But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.
How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.
For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?