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 thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.
He that filches from me my good name robs me of that which enriches him and makes me poor indeed.
Know my name is lost, By treason's tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit; Yet am I noble as the adversary I come to cope.
I cannot tell what the dickens his name is.
And teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night ...
O horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee!
A grandma's name is little less in love than is the doting title of a mother.
O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou has no name to be known by, let us call thee devil....O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! that we should, with joy, pleasance revel and applause, transform ourselves into beasts!
In God's name cheerly on, courageous friends, To reap the harvest of perpetual peace By this one bloody trial of sharp war.
Too much to know is to know nought but fame; And every godfather can give a name.
God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to scale their flinty bulwarks.
In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.
O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.
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.