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
Who can control his fate? (Othello, Act v, Sc.2)
Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious,Loyal and neutral, in a moment?No man.
While you live tell the truth and shame the devil.
Well could I curse away a winter's night,Though standing naked on a mountain top,Where biting cold would never let grass grow,And think it but a minute spent in sport.
Man, proud man, dressed in a little brief authority, like an angry ape, play such fantastic tricks before high heaven as make the angels weep
I might not this believeWithout the sensible and true avouchOf mine own eyes.
That is the way to lay the city flat, To bring the roof to the foundation, And bury all, which yet distinctly ranges, In heaps and piles of ruin.
If it be aught toward the general good, Set honor in one eye and death i' th' other, And I will look on both indifferently; For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honor more than I fear death.
Preferment goes by letter and affection, And not by old gradation, where each second Stood heir to th's first.
I will not choose what many men desire, Because I will not jump with common spirits And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.
Ever note, Lucilius, When love begins to sicken and decay It useth an enforced ceremony. There are no tricks in plain and simple faith; But hollow men, like horses hot at hand, Make gallant show and promise of their mettle; But when they should endure the bloody spur, They fall their crests, and like deceitful jades Sink in the trial.
O Ceremony, show me but thy worth? What is thy soul of adoration? Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form, Creating awe and fear in other men?
And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?
What infinite heart's-ease Must kings neglect that private men enjoy! And what have kings that privates have not too, Save ceremony, save general ceremony?