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
Experience teacheth us That resolution 's a sole help at need: And this, my lord, our honour teacheth us, That we be bold in every enterprise: Then since there is no way, but fight or die, Be resolute, my lord, for victory.
O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!
An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye; Give him a little earth for charity!
For oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafer-cakes, And hold-fast is the only dog.
Rashly, And praised be rashness for it--let us know, Our indiscretion sometime serves us well When our deep plots do pall, and that should learn us There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will
Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.
Opinion's but a fool, that makes us scan The outward habit by the inward man.
Opinion crowns with an imperial voice.
Love is your master, for he masters you; And he that is so yoked by a fool Methinks should not be chronicled for wise.
There is no creature loves me; And if I die, no soul will pity me.
Love thyself last, cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams Driving back shadows over low'ring hills. Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.
But love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offense, Crying, 'That's good that's gone.
Wish chastely, and love dearly.