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
Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath hath had no power yet upon thy beauty.
O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable
This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune,--often the surfeit of our own behavior,--we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as if we were villains by necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers, by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on: an admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star.
Let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon
A good heart is the sun and the moon; or, rather, the sun and not the moon, for it shines bright and never changes.
Thus I die. Thus, thus, thus. Now I am dead, Now I am fled, My soul is in the sky. Tongue, lose thy light. Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die.
Do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly. then your love would also change.
It is the very error of the moon; She comes more nearer earth than she was wont, And makes men mad.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .
The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.
For 'tis the sport to have the engineer Hoist with his own petar; and't shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon.
The fortune of us that are the moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the moon.
The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.
The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven.