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
Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry
Officers, what offence have these men done? DOGBERRY Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things; and, to conclude, they are lying knaves.
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.
Why should we rise because 'tis light? Did we lie down because t'was night?
He is the half part of a blessed man, Left to be finished by such as she; And she a fair divided excellence, Whose fullness of perfection lies in him.
Petruchio: Come, come, you wasp; i' faith, you are too angry. Katherine: If I be waspish, best beware my sting. Petruchio: My remedy is then, to pluck it out. Katherine: Ay, if the fool could find where it lies. Petruchio: Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail. Katherine: In his tongue. Petruchio: Whose tongue? Katherine: Yours, if you talk of tails: and so farewell. Petruchio: What, with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman.
Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay; My major vow lies here, this I'll obey.
Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engend'red in the eyes, With gazing fed, and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies.
This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror.
Like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his own lie.
So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him!
Oh, that way madness lies; let me shun that.
Their understanding Begins to swell and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shores That now lie foul and muddy.
While we lie tumbling in the hay.