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
Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge.
Sweet are the uses of adversity which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head.
O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!
Nay, had I pow'r, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth.
The last taste of sweets is sweetest last.
'Tis sweet to kiss a girl on Spring's first day, but only half so sweet as 'tis to kiss a girl on her bootyhole.
Loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd, Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower, With ravishing division, to her lute.
The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.
O, but they say, the tongues of dying men enforce attention, like deep harmony: where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain: for they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain. he, that no more must say, is listened more than they whom youth and ease have taught to gloze; more are men's ends marked, than their lives before: the setting sun, and music at the close, as the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last; writ in rememberance more than things long past
Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.
Most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath.
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign: