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
I 'gin to be aweary of the sun, And wish th' estate o' th' world were now undone.
The sun with one eye vieweth all the world.
The heavenly-harness'd team Begins his golden progress in the east.
Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache; but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.
To bed, to bed; sleep kill those pretty eyes, And give as soft attachment to thy senses, As infants empty of all thought.
Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest.
On your eyelids crown the god of sleep, Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness, Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep As is the difference betwixt day and night The hour before the heavenly-harness'd team Begins his golden progress in the east.
Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose to the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude, and in the calmest and most stillest night, with all appliances and means to boot, deny it to a king?
Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But, either it was different in blood,- Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,- Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.
Nature does require her times of preservation.
Princes have but their titles for their glories, An outward honor for an inward toil; And, for unfelt imaginations, They often feel a world of restless cares.
I will be free, even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.
Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?
Wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.