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
O, what authority and show of truth can cunning sin cover itself withal!
Glory is like a circle in the water, Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself Till by broad spreading it disperse to naught
Neither a borrower, nor a lender be; for loan oft loses both itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
In the corrupted currents of this word offence's gilded hand may solve by justice, and oft, tis seen the wicked prize itself buys out the law: but 'tis not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies in his true nature; And we ourselves
He that is proud eats up himself; pride in his glass, his trumpet, his chronicle; and whatever praises itself but in the deed, devours the deed in the praise
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.
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.
Our bodies are our gardens... our wills are our gardeners.