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
I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.
My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward,But then woos best when most his choice is froward.
Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward, But then woos best when most his choice is froward.
Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent.
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves; we are underlings.
Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous
We came into the world like brother and brother;And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another.
Over hill, over dale,Thorough bush, thorough brier,Over park, over pale,Thorough flood, thorough fire,I do wander everywhere.
Own more than thou showest, speak less than thou knowest.
O, what authority and show of truth can cunning sin cover itself withal!
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,As I foretold you, were all spirits andAre melted into air, into thin air:And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,The solemn temples, the great globe itself,Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolveAnd, like this insubstantial pageant faded,Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuffAs dreams are made on, and our little lifeIs rounded with a sleep.
Our wills and fates do so contrary runThat our devices still are overthrown;Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
Out of my lean and low abilityI'll lend you something.