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
Hear me profess sincerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather have eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.
I do love My country's good with a respect more tender, More holy and profound, then mine own life, My dear wife's estimate, her womb increase, And treasure of my loins.
Those that are good manners at the court are as ridiculous in the country, as the behavior of the country is most mockable at the court.
I thank you all and here dismiss you all, and to the love and favor of my country commit myself, my person, and the cause.
Who is here so vile that will not love his country?
In right and service to their noble country.
The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.
I had rather eleven died nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.
The bay-trees in our country are all withered, And meteors fright the fixèd stars of heaven. The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth, And lean-looked prophets whisper fearful change. Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap; The one in fear to lose what they enjoy, The other to enjoy by rage and war. These signs forerun the death or fall of kings.
Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's and truth's.
May never glorious sun reflex his beams Upon the country where you make abode! But darkness and the gloomy shade of death Environ you till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves.
Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Alas, the frailty is to blame, not we For such as we are made of, such we be
Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated