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
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,And loathsome canker lies in sweetest bud.All men make faults.
No doubt they rose up early to observe the rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.
Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty; Calls virtue hypocrite; takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love, And sets a blister there; makes marriage vows As false as dicers' oaths.
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, Nature and Fortune join'd to make thee great: Of Nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose; but Fortune, O!
When I have plucked the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It needs must wither. I'll smell it on the tree.
Say she rail; why, I'll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown; I'll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash'd with dew. Say she be mute and will not speak a word; Then I'll commend her volubility, and say she uttereth piercing eloquence.
I was too young that time to value her, But now I know her. If she be a traitor, Why, so am I. We still have slept together, Rose at an instant, learned, played, eat together, And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, Still we went coupled and inseparable.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks...
What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.
Pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
The fragrance of the rose lingers on the hand that casts it
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.