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
There's not one wise man among twenty will praise himself.
Who is Silvia? What is she, / That all our swains commend her? / Holy, fair, and wise is she.
Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man.
When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again.
I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing.
One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.
Of all knowledge the wise and good seek most to know themselves.
If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit, The one's for use, the other useth it.
Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be.
Who is Silvia What is she, That all our swains commend her Holy, fair, and wise is she.
Even so; an't please your worship, Brakenbury, You may partake of any thing we say: We speak no treason, man; we say the King Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous; We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot, A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue; And that the Queen's kindred are made gentlefolks.
All places that the eye of heaven visits Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. Teach thy necessity to reason thus; There is no virtue like necessity.
Wise men never sit and wail their loss, but cheerily seek how to redress their harms.
She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.