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
what cannot be saved when fate takes, patience her injury a mockery makes
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.
The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots and wonders At out quaint spirits.
I can see he's not in your good books,' said the messenger. 'No, and if he were I would burn my library.
There's small choice in rotten apples.
The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven; and as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name; such tricks hath strong imagination.
Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
This we prescribe, though no physician; Deep malice makes too deep incision; Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed; Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding they brav'ry in their rotten smoke?
Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, Her ashes new-create another heir As great in admiration as herself.
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
Rude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.