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
Let fancy still in my sense in Lethe steep; If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!
Shakespeare scholars just sigh and consign the book to the great pantheon of revelations .. I am accustomed to fanatics who get a funny look in the eye when they come to speak to me how about the Earl of Oxford or Marlowe really wrote the plays. She spoke rationally, and it's an intelligently readable book, but it floats way above the facts, as I told her.
Though men can cover crimes with bold, stern looks, poor women's faces are their own faults' books.
A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.
All men's faces are true, whatsome'er their hands are.
Promising is the very air o' th' time; it opens the eyes of expectation. Performance is ever duller for his act; and, but in the plainer and simpler kind of people, the deed of saying is quite out of use. To promise is most courtly and fashionable; performance is a kind of will or testament which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it.
Still constant is a wondrous excellence.
No metal can--no, not the hangman's axe--bear half the keenness of thy sharp envy.
We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves And spend our flatteries to drink those men Upon whose age we void it up again With poisonous spite and envy.
All's well that ends well; still the fine's the crown. Whate'er the course, the end is the renown.
My cake is dough, but I'll in among the rest, Out of hope of all but my share of the feast.
What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?
Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but backrout quite the wits.
He that keeps not crust nor crum Weary of all, shall want some.