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
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.
Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!
To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on.
I hold my peace, sir? no; No, I will speak as liberal as the north; Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.
O, let me kiss that hand! KING LEAR: Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.
thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.
This day's black fate on more days doth depend; This but begins the woe, others must end.
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven
Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.
I love thee, I love thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.