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
Though now this grained face of mine be hid In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow, And all the conduits of my blood froze up, Yet hath my night of life some memory, My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, My dull deaf ears a little use to hear.
In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales Of woeful ages, long ago betid
Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
A nun of winter's sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.
Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.
What freezings I have felt, what dark days seen, What old December's bareness everywhere!
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter's wind, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile.
Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud; And after summer evermore succeeds Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold: So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.
Thou knowest, winter tames man, woman, and beast.
Well-apparel'd April on the heel Of limping Winter treads.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' th' season Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, Which some call nature's bastards.