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 my good lord, that comfort comes too late, 'Tis like a pardon after execution. That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me; But now I am past all comforts here but prayers.
Now I am past all comforts here, but prayer.
His worst fault is, he's given to prayer; he is something peevish that way.
Let me say amen betimes lest the devil cross my prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew.
I think thy horse will sooner con an oration than thou learn a prayer without book.
Watch tonight, pray tomorrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you!
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.
We do pray for mercy, and that same prayer doth teach us all to render the deeds of mercy.
There is nothing in the world so much like prayer as music is. ~William Shakespeare
I do not know What kind of my obedience I should tender. More than my all is nothing; nor my prayers Are not words holy hallowed, nor my wishes More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes Are all I can return.
Bow, stubborn knees, and, heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe. All many be well.
Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!
If yon bethink yourself of any crime Unreconcil'd as yet to heaven and grace, Solicit for it straight.
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.