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 pardon him, as God shall pardon me.
What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother's blood Is there not rain enough in the sweet heaves To wash it white as snow?
Experience is by industry achieved, And perfected by the swift course of time.
But I will be, A bridegroom in my death, and run into't As to a lover's bed.
But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of?
And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
The thing of courage As rous'd with rage doth sympathise, And, with an accent tun'd in self-same key, Retorts to chiding fortune.
He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion.
We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail.
Why, courage then! what cannot be avoided 'Twere childish weakness to lament or fear.
The smallest worm will turn being trodden on, And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.
O, the blood more stirs To rouse a lion than to start a hare!
You must not think That we are made of stuff so fat and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger And think it pastime.
At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth; But like of each thing that in season grows.