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
O God! I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams
My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep. The more I give thee, the more I have, For both are infinite
She knew her distance and did angle for me, Madding my eagerness with her restraint, As all impediments on fancy's course Are motives of more fancy; and in fine, her infinite cunning, with her modern grace Subdued me to her rate
What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god -- the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety.
You speak an infinite deal of nothing.
This is the monstrosity in love, lady, that the will is infinite and the execution confined; that the desire is boundless, and the act a slave to limit.
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety. Other women cloy the appetites they feed, but she makes hungry where most she satisfies.
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety, other women cloy
In nature's infinite book of secrecyA little I can read.
What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted! Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just, and he but naked, though locked up in steel, whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
The purest treasure mortal times afford, is spotless reputation; that away, men are but gilded loam or painted clay.
The rude sea grew civil at her song,And certain stars shot madly from their spheresTo hear the sea-maid's music.
The robb'd that smiles steals something from the thief: He robs himself that spends a bootless grief