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
Like one who draws the model of a house beyond his power to build it who, half through, gives o'er, and leaves his part-created cost a naked subject to the weeping clouds.
For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears.
Speak, what trade art thou? Why, sir, a carpenter. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What does thou with thy best apparel on?
This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strange That even our loves should with our fortunes change, For 'tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love.
All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral-- Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse; And all things change them to the contrary.
The love of wicked men converts to fear; That fear to hate, and hate turns one or both To worthy danger and deserved death.
As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown.
My prophecy is but half his journey yet, For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, Yon towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds, Must kiss their own feet.
Comets importing change of times and states, Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky And with them scourge the bad revolting stars.
O my good lord, that comfort comes too late, 'Tis like a pardon after execution. That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me; But now I am past all comforts here but prayers.
Away, you mouldy rogue, away!
Forever, and forever, farewell, Cassius! If we do meet again, why, we shall smile; If not, why then this parting was well made.
We are such stuff that dreams are made of.
Such thanks as fits a king's remembrance.